


Fly Very High

by yalublyutebya



Series: Formula One AU [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Car Racing, Angry Sex, Formula One, Hate Sex, M/M, Permanent Injury, Rivalry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-29
Updated: 2014-10-26
Packaged: 2017-12-21 18:16:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 46,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/903353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yalublyutebya/pseuds/yalublyutebya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson was born to be a racing driver, and even a crash isn't enough to keep him out of a car for long. But coming back is not that easy, especially when he meets his new teammate, Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a documentary about the rivalry between F1 drivers Niki Lauda and James Hunt, and by my love of Formula One in general. Real names of real people may feature, but only in the spirit of fun :-)
> 
> Title from a quote from the legendary Ayrton Senna (1960-1994): "And so you touch this limit, something happens and you suddenly can go a little bit further. With your mind power, your determination, your instinct, and the experience as well, you can fly very high."

_Welcome to sunny Melbourne, where we're about to kick off the first practice session of this 2014 Formula One season. And the big news today is, of course, the return of Brit John Watson. After a spectacular crash at the Belgian Grand Prix last year, no-one was sure if John would be back in a car any time soon, and yet here he is, defying all expectations. Now, we'll have to wait to see if six months away and a nasty injury has dampened any of the Brit's fighting spirit._

*

_Two months earlier_

John stared at the phone in his hand then took a deep breath and dialled, holding it to his ear. After only a few rings, a familiar voice answered.

"Hello?"

"Mike, hi. It's John."

"John! Great to hear from you. How are you doing?" 

John hadn't spoken to his race engineer, Mike Stamford, in at least a few weeks, but he'd forgotten just how well Mike's general good humour worked wonders on his nerves.

"I'm good. Yeah. Great, actually."

"How's the shoulder coming along?"

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about."

"That sounds like good news," Mike said, his smile evident in his tone.

"Yeah. I've just been given the all-clear by the physio. I'm ready to come back."

There was just a short pause before Mike answered. "You're sure?"

John let out a huff of breath. "Mike, I'm a racing driver. I don't know what to do with myself that isn't racing. I need to come back before I go mad."

Mike laughed. "Alright, but you know they'll want all your test results. And they'll probably want to run their own."

"I know."

"I'll talk to Lestrade. Are you in England?"

"Yeah."

"Great. Can you come down to HQ in the next few days?"

"I'll be there tomorrow," John said quickly, not even bothering to hide his eagerness, and Mike laughed again.

"I'll see you then. And John? I'm really glad to hear you're better."

"Thanks. I'll see you tomorrow. Bye."

John rang off, threw his phone down on his bed and rubbed his hands across his face, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He'd felt lost these past few months, trapped in self-pity and misery, watching the rest of the season from his bed - watching someone else lift the championship trophy that could have been his. Now, it was time to get back to where he belonged.

He rolled his shoulder, winced, and pushed himself to his feet. He made his way out of the overly-opulent bedroom, and padded over the laminate floor to the large, open-plan kitchen - another extravagance, and another reminder of how empty the place felt since Sarah had left. He forced the thought away - better things to think about now than that trainwreck - and went through the motions of making himself some dinner. He'd become surprisingly self-sufficient in the last few weeks, as soon as he'd been able to walk properly again, and it didn't take long to throw something together. He'd soon have to start paying much more attention to his diet, but for tonight he could let it go.

After dinner, he flopped down on the sofa, flicked the television on to fill the apartment with some sort of background noise, and opened up his laptop. After checking his emails and scrolling idly through his Facebook, he finally went looking for the latest F1 gossip. And there was plenty to be found - speculation about the cars for next year and who would be driving for what team. He saw his own name just the once - a passing reference to his accident last year - but he did not let that dampen his spirits. The F1 community could be surprisingly fickle if you weren't Michael Schumacher, but he'd be back soon, and his name would be on everyone's lips once more.

Finally, growing bored, he set the laptop aside and turned his attention to the television. They were showing the Senna film again on one of the movie channels, and he couldn't resist flicking to it. He'd watched it too many times to count, but if nothing else, it was a helpful reminder that he was still incredibly lucky to have survived.

*

_He was losing control, the tyres spinning out, failing to find traction on the wet ground. The car twitched as he fought to keep it in line, fingers gripping the steering wheel so hard they were almost colourless, the car fighting back underneath him. Just when he thought he might be able to get it back under control, he hit a slick patch on the kerb and the car spun, nothing he could do to stop it._

_In the space of a few seconds, he hit the wall, the nose crumpling in an instant and the impact ricocheting through his leg. The car bounced off the wall and spun again, hitting the wall side on, the bodywork crumpling around him, his shoulder crushed. The car spun one more time and then finally came to a stop, and it was only then that he saw he was sitting on the edge of the track, right on the racing line. He could see the frantic waving of yellow flags all around him, but the bend was concealing him from anyone coming up the hill._

_As the familiar red nose of a Ferrari rounded the corner at over a hundred miles per hour, he cowered down in the cockpit and closed his eyes, thinking 'please God, let me live'._

*

John bolted awake, chest heaving, sweat sticking his shirt to his back and shoulders. He took several burning, painful breaths, his throat dry and sore. His hands were shaking violently and he curled them into fists, pressing them to his aching leg as he let out a choked cry. He glanced almost instinctively at the other side of the bed, and then turned away, angry with himself and still shaking. He clambered out of bed and staggered through to the living room on unsteady feet.

He got as far as the kitchen worktop, which he bent over, pressing his head to the cool surface. He swallowed, forcing back the tears, and let out an anguished, angry cry against the marble. His legs finally gave way and he turned, slipping to the floor, his head buried in his hands.


	2. Chapter 2

Despite his restless night, John felt more alive than he had in months as he walked into the team's headquarters. The building was a hive of activity, everyone getting ready for winter testing, the team pulling together to make the car as good as it could possibly be. God, he'd missed this.

As he walked through the building towards Mike's office, he got stopped several times by people telling him how good it was to see him back. Even those who did not go as far as stopping him in the corridor greeted him with a smile and a nod, or a wave. It felt like coming home, like a soothing balm for his battered ego. These people here - the heart of the team - they cared about him, they were his family.

Mike's office door stood ajar, and inside John could just make out Mike's slightly round figure, bent over the desk. Beside him was a tall, slim, dark-haired man, and they were both studying something on Mike's desk. John approached curiously and stopped at the open door, reaching up to rap his knuckles against the wood.

Mike spun around to face him and broke into a smile instantly.

"John!" 

He strode forward and took John's hand in a tight grip, his other hand clasping John's bad shoulder as John tried not to wince. "Mike."

"Look at you," Mike said warmly, shaking him slightly. "You're looking good."

"I feel it."

Mike turned back towards the dark-haired man, and John looked at him properly now. He was perched on the edge of Mike's desk, watching them both with an inscrutable expression.

"John, meet Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, this is-"

"John Watson, of course," Sherlock interrupted, pushing himself to his feet and holding out his hand.

John shook it, forcing a polite smile. Unfortunately, he knew exactly who the man in front of him was - he'd taken John's place after the accident. The fact that he was still hanging around the team's headquarters gave John a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He hadn't even considered the fact that his seat might not even be open anymore - and Holmes's performance at the end of the last season was certainly a worrying factor. Plenty of online commentators had been raving about his cool, calm driving style, and the sheer skill displayed by a driver who had apparently come from nowhere.

"Well, I'll leave you two to catch up," Sherlock said with a faint smile, gathering up what appeared to be technical drawings from Mike's desk. "I'll refine the design and get back to you," he told Mike.

Sherlock left, and John turned to Mike with a questioning look. "He's helping out on the technical side?" Perhaps there was hope for his seat after all.

"He is, but he's also been offered a drive with us this year," Mike explained with something of an apologetic tone. "The man's a genius. I think he understands the car more than I do some days."

John blinked, unsure what to say. His chest felt inexplicably tight. He'd never imagined that his temporary replacement might become slightly more permanent.

"Plus, you know, the PR people are loving the idea. All-British team, and all that."

John frowned in confusion. "What happened to Eric?"

"He took Kimi's place at Lotus."

John remembered now that he'd seen plenty of stories about Kimi's move to Red Bull. He remembered thinking it sounded like a mistake to put Sebastian and Kimi on the same team. At least Eric had gained something from the situation though - he'd never been very happy in their team, never content to be number two to John.

Belatedly, it struck John what this must mean. "So I've still got a drive with the team?"

Mike laughed good-naturedly. "Of course. Everyone was really excited to hear you were ready to come back."

John let out a discreet sigh of relief. 

"Come on, Lestrade told me to bring you up as soon as you got here."

*

John had always had a great deal of respect for the team's technical director, Greg Lestrade, and that was no different now as Lestrade greeted him with a grin and a firm handshake.

"John. Good to have you back."

"I'm glad to be back."

Lestrade smiled, settling back in his chair and gesturing for John to sit down as well. "Just in time too. This is going to be an exciting year. The team have been working really hard on the car, and we're expecting good results."

"Great."

Lestrade smiled. "Have you met Sherlock yet?"

"Yes."

"Good. I think you two are going to get along great. It'll be good to have a break from all that Anglo-French antagonism," Lestrade joked, and John gave him a small smile. 

There were no guarantees that his relationship with Holmes would be any better, but John pushed that thought aside. The team would expect him to be civil, at the very least.

"I, err, I saw him driving at the end of last season. Holmes - Sherlock, that is."

"What did you think?" Lestrade asked with interest.

"He's good. Especially considering it was his first drive in F1."

"Yeah, we got bloody lucky there."

"I saw some pretty brave driving too," he admitted. He'd seen Holmes carry out some astonishing overtakes that hardly gave the other person a chance. Notably, in the last race of the season, he'd done such a number on Lewis that Lewis had narrowly avoided ending up in the wall.

Lestrade grinned. "That's one way of putting it. Lewis really wasn't pleased about that last race. Not that he would've won the Championship anyway, but you know what he's like. He tried to complain that it was Sherlock's fault he went off, but the FIA dismissed it."

John smiled tightly.

"I know that's never been your style, but I'll tell you something, you could learn a thing or two," Lestrade said.

John gave a non-committal noise. He might still have his seat, but it seemed the number one spot was nothing like certain. 

"Right then," Lestrade said, slapping a hand down on the table. "I think it's about time we get you back in a car. What d'you reckon?"

John smiled brightly. "Give me a helmet and point me in the right direction."

Lestrade laughed, standing up and rounding his desk. "We go to Barcelona at the end of the week. Talk to Sally and she'll get you sorted."

John rose from his chair and shook the hand Lestrade held out to him. "Thank you."

"No, thank you. We're chuffed to have our star driver back. It hasn't been the same without you." Lestrade gave him a pat on the shoulder. "See you in Barcelona."

John nodded. "See you then."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Teams very often have a number 1 driver and a number 2, where the number 1 driver is usually the better, more experienced one (and presumably, his car gets all the good stuff, the best engineers etc.). The number 2 is quite often used to support the number 1 in a race e.g. by holding up other drivers to help his teammate get ahead.


	3. Chapter 3

There was nothing like this feeling, nothing in the world to compare with the rush of hitting the apex spot on and flooring the accelerator a moment later to send you hurtling down the next straight at close to two hundred miles an hour.

John's blood was singing, his whole body attuned to the car and, God, he'd forgotten how good it felt when the car was like an extension of your body. Racing was in his blood and it was only now, after being away, that he realised how much of an obsession - an addiction - it had become. 

He'd been nervous getting into the car for the first time in months, hands tensing around the familiar steering wheel which looked more like a controller. For a brief, awful moment, he thought he'd forgotten how to drive this complicated machine. Then, to add to his nervousness, the anti-stall had kicked in the first time he tried to pull away, cutting the power, but he simply took a deep breath and found the clutch's biting point once more. Another deep breath and he was off, making his way slowly out of the pit lane and onto the track. Within a lap, anxiety had been replaced by adrenaline, and he had settled into a comfortable pace. 

The car was much better than he remembered it being last year: a little more traction through the corners, a little more speed on the straights, and overall more responsive. Lestrade was right to have high hopes for this year - their car was going to provide some stiff competition. Now it was just his job as the driver to go out there and make the most of it.

After a couple more laps, Mike came on the radio to tell him to come back in so they could swap the tyres. They did so, and he headed back out again. He felt a slight twitch in his bad shoulder as he put his foot down after clearing the pit lane and turned into the first corner, but he quickly forgot about it as he found his rhythm once again.

Everything was going well, until he hit the kerb at the apex of one of the corners and it threw him off the racing line, forcing him to wrench the wheel to the right before he ended up in a gravel trap. The sharp motion pulled at his injured shoulder and he let out a growl of pain.

"Everything alright?" Mike asked over the radio.

"Fine," he gritted out. "Just hit a dodgy patch."

Mike said nothing, but a few corners later, John could tell that his performance was slipping as the pain refused to fade. Every right-hander put strain on his shoulder, pulling at muscles still weak from injury, and so he got slower and slower. The telemetry would have given him away even if his sudden intakes of breath didn't. 

"I think that's enough for today," Mike announced over the radio. "Come back in."

John hit the steering wheel in frustration, and cruised back to the pits. He pulled up outside the garage and Mike was there to greet him as he pulled himself out of the car, trying to hide the wince as he put weight on his left arm. 

Mike watched him closely, but didn't comment. "Good work today," he said instead, reaching out to give John an awkward pat on his good shoulder. John pressed his lips together and nodded, before leaving to seek refuge in the changing rooms.

*

A scalding hot shower did little to improve the ache in his shoulder and he sat on one of the benches in the changing rooms, slowly rotating it, as his physiotherapist had shown him. He hissed with pain and had to stop more than once, angry and disappointed with himself. The physio had said it would still take time to get back to normal, but time wasn't a luxury he could afford: every week away made his position in the team more tenuous. He was ready to come back, and he wouldn't let anyone question it.

He pressed his fingers into the skin either side of the shoulder joint, trying to loosen the muscles, and groaned with discomfort.

"I thought you were better."

His head snapped up, eyes narrowing as he spotted Sherlock watching him from the other side of the room. John hadn't even heard him come in.

"I am," he bit out.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, dropping his bag on the nearest bench.

"I'm fit to drive," John said defensively, dropping his hand from his shoulder. 

"Barely," Sherlock muttered, turning away and taking his race suit out of the bag.

John gritted his teeth. "I'll be fine by the time the season starts."

Sherlock only hummed in reply, a noise of clear disagreement which only served to make John even angrier.

"I know you'd love it if I couldn't race," he bit out, pointing a finger at Sherlock, who had turned to him with evident surprise. "That would make your coup complete, wouldn't it? First you take my seat and then you get me out of your way completely."

Sherlock regarded him for a moment, face impassive, before answering. "Ah, I see. Confidence issues as well."

John hadn't had the urge to punch someone in a long time, but Sherlock's calm demeanour was maddening in the face of his anger, even as he recognised he was being irrational. 

"You don't know anything about me," John spat.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow again and gave him a quick once-over. "I wouldn't say that. In fact-"

"There you are."

They both turned to the door, where Sally Donovan stood with arms crossed, an impatient look directed at Sherlock. "We're waiting on you, golden boy," she said, lip curling.

Sherlock turned to give her a fake smile, and stripped off his shirt. Sally pursed her lips in agitation, and pointedly turned her back. John, scowling, watched as Sherlock pulled on the thin under-layer, followed by his race suit, the top half of which he left hanging loose around his waist. 

When he was done, he threw a look at John, but said nothing as he left the room, giving Sally a pointed smile as he passed her.

"Arsehole," Sally got out under her breath.

As if remembering herself, she shook her head and turned towards John. "Lestrade asked me to remind you about the sponsors' do this evening."

John grimaced but nodded. He had never enjoyed the parties organised by their sponsors, but he had no choice but to attend - a snub to the sponsors was unthinkable. 

Sally turned to go, but John called her back, his curiosity getting the better of him.

"Why don't you like him?" he asked.

Sally made a face and hesitated for a moment, before answering. "You know how he got here, right?"

"I don't, actually." 

Sally scoffed. "Let's just say he's got friends in high places."

John's eyes widened. "Lestrade doesn't usually let that influence him," he commented. Just last year, Lestrade had turned down a six-million-pound sponsorship deal from some Russian oligarch who had wanted his son to get a drive in return. 

"Yeah, well," Sally said with a little shrug. "This was different."

John wanted to push, but Sally turned towards the door. "Anyway, I'd better get back." 

"Yeah."

She paused for a moment longer, sending John a small smile. "It's good to see you back, John."

"Thanks."

She nodded and left, and John finished getting dressed, turning everything over in his head. He couldn't help feeling even more resentful of his teammate with this new knowledge. At least that explained why he'd been given a chance over so many others, and it was lucky for the team that he seemed to know what he was doing. 

John finished up, his shoulder now settling into a dull ache, and returned to his hotel room to prepare for the evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Here](http://www.forbes.com/pictures/mkm45ghgkm/10-reasons-to-follow-formula-one-2/) is a picture of Mark Webber showing off the under-layer and race suit (with race suit hanging loose around the waist). ~~I don't know why but I find this look really attractive... Especially on Mark Webber...~~


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should probably point out, as someone asked about it, that I have made a deliberate choice not to name John and Sherlock's team. They are in an imaginary team which exists in addition to the current 11 teams (listed [here](http://www.f1fanatic.co.uk/2013-f1-season/2013-f1-drivers-teams/), along with current drivers).

The party was already underway when John arrived, the room filled with the sounds of music, chatter and laughter. Everyone he could see in his immediate vicinity seemed to be in their twenties, most of them as glamorous as models - hell, they probably were. He felt old, and out-of-place, and was relieved when he spotted Mike's familiar face through the crowd.

John managed to weave his way over to Mike, greeting him with a warm handshake.

"I'd forgotten what these were like," John said with a smile.

"Well, you know what sponsors are like. And someone's got to give the WAGs of tomorrow a chance to meet the racing drivers." 

John laughed. "Speaking of, is the lovely Mrs. Stamford here?"

"No, she's back home. We've got a little one now, you know."

"I didn't," John remarked with surprise. "Congratulations. Boy or a girl?"

"A girl. Daisy." Mike produced a picture of a tiny, chubby baby and John grinned.

"She's gorgeous. Must've got that from her mum."

"Cheeky. Anyway, isn't it about time you settled down?" Mike teased.

"I'm a racing driver," John answered with a grin. "I've got to maintain my playboy image, after all."

"Aye, of course."

Mike smiled and John grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. At least there were some benefits to a bash like this. 

"To your little girl," he said, tipping his glass towards Mike.

They fell into a companionable silence, sipping at their drinks as they surveyed the room. 

"I hardly recognise anyone here," John commented after a while.

"Not surprising. Oh, but look, there's a friendly face."

Mike waved as John tried to work out who he was referring to. A moment later, he spotted Molly Hooper edging her way through the crowd towards them.

"Hi," Molly said with a little wave as she finally joined them, straightening her shirt. 

"Molly, are you working with us now?" John asked with surprise. Molly was a regular around the F1 scene, but she'd been working as an assistant at McLaren before his accident. She was a nice enough girl, if a little scatterbrained.

"Oh no," she explained. "Well, not really. I work for Mr. Holmes - err, Sherlock. As his PA."

"He has a PA?" John asked incredulously, but then schooled his expression into a playful smile. "And such a lovely one too? Lucky bugger."

Molly blushed, and quickly changed the subject. "You look better. I mean, you looked good before, obviously, but... what I mean is-"

"Thanks, Molly," John cut in with a kind smile. "It's good to be back."

She nodded. "And how's Sarah?" She looked around expectantly. "I haven't seen her yet."

"We, err, we split up."

"Oh, John, I'm so sorry," she said, pressing a hand to her mouth. "I shouldn't have said anything."

"No, it's fine," John assured her. "We... Turned out we wanted different things." It had become clear during John's recovery that it was the lifestyle Sarah had been drawn to, not John. Last he'd heard, she was dating a footballer. 

"Well, plenty more fish in the sea," Mike said with forced cheer. 

"Yeah."

A slightly awkward silence fell over them, until Molly cleared her throat and turned to look across the room. 

"I should probably get back."

John hadn't spotted Sherlock until that point, but the crowd shifted and revealed him looking incredibly bored as a beautiful young brunette talked at him. As they looked on, Sherlock said something in reply, and John watched with equal parts amusement and surprise as she slapped him across the face before storming away.

"Uh oh," Molly said. "I have to go."

Molly dived into the crowd and appeared moments later at Sherlock's side. Sherlock waved her away impatiently and moved towards the bar.

"God, poor Molly."

Mike looked at him askance. "He's a good bloke, once you get to know him."

John hummed noncommittally, but he wasn't going to pass up an opportunity to do a bit of digging.

"Sally was telling me earlier that Sherlock's got some... influential friends."

Mike turned to him. "Well yes. Mainly his brother."

"His brother."

Mike cleared his throat and looked around before leaning in closer. "He's always had a minor role in the FIA, you see. But now... well, you didn't hear it from me, but there's a rumour going round that he was part of the group that bought out Bernie." 

"So his brother buys the controlling share in Formula One... and Sherlock gets to drive with one of the top teams."

Mike pulled a face. "I know it sounds bad, but it wasn't like that. In fact, Sherlock isn't even very friendly with his brother."

John nodded, but he wasn't convinced by Mike's defence: Mike was always far too easy on people. 

"John!" 

They both looked up to find Sally approaching. "You're wanted for some photos."

John sighed, but knew he had no choice. "Does my hair look alright?" he asked playfully.

"Come on, Princess," Sally said, rolling her eyes. "The sooner we get this out of the way, the sooner everyone can enjoy their evening."

John gave Mike a nod, and he and Sally started to make their way through the crowd.

"Big plans then, Sally?" John asked. He couldn't help but notice she was wearing a figure-hugging dress that was more party wear than office wear. 

"None of your business," she replied, turning to give him a cheeky smile. 

When they reached the far side of the room, John spotted Lestrade talking to David Simpson, CEO of the company which was hosting the party, and one of their biggest sponsors. The company had sponsored the team for some years, and David was a more than familiar face to John - unlike some sponsors, he took a keen interest in the team, and showed up at races throughout the year.

"John," David greeted him, clapping him on the shoulder. "Good to see you back."

"David," John replied with a smile, turning to give Lestrade a nod as well. 

"Ah, look, here's Sherlock," Lestrade said, waving the other driver over. "David, this is our newest addition, Sherlock Holmes."

"Nice to finally meet you, Sherlock."

Sherlock lifted his head in greeting, but said nothing. His cheek was only just starting to fade back to its normal pale colour.

"Come on then, lads," Lestrade said. "Let's get some pictures with the two of you and David."

"Yeah," David chimed in, as they took their positions either side of him. "I want a picture on my wall for when you're the top two drivers in F1."

"We won't ask you to specify who'll be number one, and who'll be number two," Sherlock commented, his voice a low rumble of amusement. John gritted his teeth, and forced a smile as a photographer - who had appeared out of nowhere - took their picture.

"Now, the two drivers together," the photographer suggested a few photos later, and David stepped away.

John moved a bit closer, sending a little glance in Sherlock's direction. He hadn't noticed just how tall the other man was before - he had at least five inches on John, and stooped just a little as they posed for the picture. 

"Come on, you two. Look a little friendlier, will you," Lestrade remarked, as the photographer made a squishing sort of motion with his hands.

John leaned in closer, his smile a little strained by this point. He tried not to jolt as he felt Sherlock press a hand to his back.

"All done, thanks," the photographer announced a moment later, and John moved away, striking up a conversation with David. When he looked around, Sherlock had disappeared, and he could breathe a little easier. He'd never taken such a strong, instant dislike to someone, but there was just something about Sherlock that wound him up. He planned to be civil, because his job depended on it, but that didn't mean they had to be friends. In fact, the more he stayed away from Sherlock, the better it would be for both of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WAGs = wives and girlfriends (first used for the wives/girlfriends of the England football team but seems to have spread more widely now)
> 
> FIA = Federation Internationale de l'Automobile, the governing body for motorsport.
> 
> Bernie = [Bernie Ecclestone](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bernie_Ecclestone) \- Bernie basically runs Formula One.


	5. Chapter 5

The next morning found John in the gym, building up a slow but steady rhythm on the rowing machine. The motion pulled slightly at his shoulder, but not enough to stop. His bad leg was reassuringly pain-free, for the moment. 

He was mid stroke when the door to the gym opened and Sherlock entered. John very almost lost his rhythm, but managed to catch himself in time, cursing inwardly. He should have known better than to think he could avoid his teammate. Sherlock gave him only a brief glance before moving over to the exercise bikes. 

John continued his workout, all too aware of the awkward silence permeating the room. Sherlock's reflection was just visible in the mirrors lining one of the walls; he seemed absorbed in what he was doing, head down as he built up speed on one of the bikes, curly hair hanging over his forehead. 

John finished up on the rowing machine and moved over to the shoulder press machine. He threw his towel down beside him and sat down, checking the weights before settling back against the cushion, hands wrapping around the grips. He let out a steady breath and pressed forward - his shoulder protested instantly and he slowly moved back again, cursing under his breath. 

"You're pushing too hard, you'll make it worse."

He looked up with a scowl. Sherlock was watching him from his perch on the bike, towel around his neck. 

"Expert in muscle injuries as well, are you?"

Sherlock's only reply was an amused smirk. 

"What?" John snapped.

"I've been trying to figure out why you dislike me so much. A lot of people do, but they usually have a good reason. Or at least what they believe to be a good reason." Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John, studying him. "We've hardly spoken, so I'm not sure I could have said anything to offend you, but your outburst yesterday clearly indicates that you resent me."

John bit his lip and hesitated for a moment, then gave in. "I don't like people who get where they are on the basis of who they know, not what they can do." 

There was so much more to his resentment, but this was the only objection he could put into words.

"Ah, that's it, is it?" Sherlock said, not perturbed in the slightest. "I must say, that shows a lack of faith in Lestrade's objectivity."

"So your brother's got nothing to do with you getting a place on the team?" John asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

"You've seen me drive," Sherlock replied in a meaningful tone.

"I have."

"And?"

"And what?" John bit out.

"Do I drive like a man who doesn't deserve to be exactly where he is?" 

There was nothing John could say to contradict him and Sherlock made a pleased noise. "It all comes out eventually. Jealousy is such a nasty emotion."

"You think I'm jealous of you?" John scoffed.

Sherlock smirked in reply. 

John shook his head in disbelief. "Who the hell do you think you are?"

Sherlock finally moved, climbing off the bike and running the towel over his face. He met John's gaze again and his whole expression hardened, eyes turning to flint. "The next world champion."

Before John could even think of a response, Sherlock was heading to the door. "I'll leave you to your workout."

Gaping, John stared after Sherlock as the door swung shut behind him. He'd never met someone so arrogant, which was saying something, considering he was in a sport dominated by male egos. He knew that his dislike was irrational - and yes, probably aggravated by jealousy - but after their exchange, he couldn't help but feel a bit more justified. Sherlock Holmes was a pretentious, privileged arsehole, and John would be quite happy to spend as little time with him as possible.

*

John was heading to the hotel restaurant for lunch with Mike and Molly when an accented voice called his name, stopping him just outside the door.

"John!"

He turned, a genuine smile crossing his face. "Felipe."

Felipe pulled him into a hug and stepped back to look at him. "You look good."

Felipe was the only driver who had stayed in contact after John's accident, knowing himself just how hard it was to be away from the sport.

"Thanks, mate."

"No problems with the team?" 

"No, they've been great."

Felipe smiled warmly. "Good. We missed you last year."

"Don't worry, you can watch the back end of my car in a few weeks," John joked.

Felipe smiled. "We're going to be good this year."

"You're always good, mate."

"And you, John." After a pause, he added: "Your new teammate too. He's very good."

John's face must have done something because Felipe laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. "I know what this is like, when your teammate gets all the attention. You don't worry, though. I know you'll be excellent."

John gave him a weak smile. "Thanks."

"I have to go, but we'll have lunch soon?"

"Definitely," John promised.

"Take care, John."

Felipe left and John made his way into the restaurant and headed over to the table where Mike and Molly were waiting. "Afternoon."

"Hi," Mike said with his usual pleased smile. Molly gave him a slightly tired smile as she continued to text on her phone.

"You alright, Molly?"

"Fine," she said quickly, setting her phone down and brushing her hair out of her face. "Just busy."

Her phone chimed and she gave a little frown before picking it up and reading the message. She rolled her eyes and then have John and Mike an apologetic look.

"Sorry, I've got to go."

"When duty calls," Mike replied cheerily.

She smiled awkwardly and slid out of the booth. "We'll catch up later. Maybe."

With a little wave, she was gone and John shook his head. The poor girl didn't look like she'd last much longer, running around after Sherlock Holmes. 

Pushing the thought of Sherlock out of his mind, John turned to Mike. "Come on then, tell me what you've done to the car to make it so good."

Mike launched into an enthusiastic account of the months of work put into refining the engine and the car's design, whilst John tried to keep up. He was no expert, but he at least had a basic knowledge of aerodynamics and how an engine worked.

"There's a lot more downforce too," he added at one point.

"Ah, yes, Sherlock helped with that. He suggested a minor adjustment to the diffuser and it's worked brilliantly."

"Great," John got out.

"You should really sit down and talk to him at some point, his understanding of the engineering is outstanding."

John gave a forced smile. "Maybe I will."

Mike beamed and began to give an in-depth, very technical description of the changes made to the front wing. John kept up his smile and nodded along, but he was lost pretty quickly. Some time later, Mike seemed to notice and trailed off. 

"Sorry," he said with an abashed smile. "I forgot who I was talking to."

John clenched his jaw. He was fed up of constantly having Sherlock Holmes' greatness rubbed in his face.

"You know, I'm actually feeling a bit rough," John said, getting to his feet. "I'm going to head back to my room."

Mike's face dropped. "What about lunch?"

"Sorry. I'll catch you later."

John returned to his room and sat on his bed, rubbing his hands over his face. He knew he was being ridiculous, and he was angry with himself for it. He'd always been secure in himself and his talent before, but now he found himself doubting everything because of his new teammate.

"Get over it, Watson," he growled, throwing himself back on the bed.

The team had made their decision and there was nothing he could do to change it - Sherlock was his teammate whether he liked it or not. What he had to do was accept it, move on, and prove to everyone that there was a reason he was on this team in the first place. John nodded to himself, a newfound determination settling over him: no more moping, no more taking offence at the smallest things. He was going to go out and be the best driver. He was going to show Sherlock Holmes who was number one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Felipe = Felipe Massa. Massa was hit in the head by debris, causing him to crash head-on into a wall during a qualifying session in July 2009. He was out of F1 until the following season. My headcanon is that he's a total sweetie and a good friend to John, having been through the same thing himself.
> 
> *Click the links for info on [downforce](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Downforce) and [diffusers](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Diffuser_\(automotive\)) (if you're interested in that sort of thing).


	6. Chapter 6

Winter testing continued apace, and John was finally getting comfortable with the car and himself. His times were getting faster, and he felt invincible. To add to his good mood, he'd succeeded surprisingly well in staying away from his teammate: although they were in the same team, their cars were being developed separately, tweaked to each driver's preferences. There were occasional team events which forced them together, but John got through with the minimum of civility. At the end of the day, he had better things to occupy his time with. 

"Well, then," Mike said, regarding John over his beer bottle. "Australia in just over a week. You ready?"

"Can't wait," John said, taking a sip from his own beer.

Mike smiled. "They're not going to know what's hit them."

John laughed, leaning back in the booth. "Let's hope it goes that well."

"Are you kidding me? Your driving lately has been stunning, absolutely stunning."

John raised his eyebrows. "Stunning?" 

"Yeah," Mike said, with a nod. "I'm talking a whole other level."

"Well, the car's bloody good-"

"No," Mike interrupted with a kind smile. "It's you. It's like... It's like you've found your passion for it again."

John considered that for a moment before sitting forward, elbows on the table as he met Mike's eyes. "That's the thing. When you're faced with losing something forever... Well, you realise just how important it was in the first place."

"Amen to that," Mike said, tipping his bottle towards John. "You're going to knock 'em dead, and I can't wait to see it."

John smiled around the lip of his bottle, before swallowing another mouthful. 

"I probably shouldn't be telling you this, but your times are better than Sherlock's," Mike admitted. 

"Are they now?" John asked with a pleased smile.

"Consistently. I mean, don't get me wrong, he's good. But he's struggling to get what you're getting out of the car."

John had to smother his smile as he sat back once more. "Well, he's still relatively new to the sport."

"Of course. One to watch out for come race day though."

"I'll keep an eye on him in my rearview mirror," John joked. "As long as he's not too far back."

Mike laughed lightly, and the topic moved on to news of Mike's little girl, but John couldn't help feeling smug for the rest of the evening. It looked like experience was key, after all, and even golden boys struggled after the first flush of success.

*

Melbourne was a balmy 20 degrees when they arrived a few days before the race. The city was already preparing for the course to take over its streets, barriers and signs lining the roads, waiting to be put in place. The first race of the Formula One calendar was a mere four days away, and John felt a combination of exhilarating anticipation and gut-churning fear. 

They checked into the hotel and John collapsed on his bed as soon as the door was shut behind him. He'd forgotten just how badly jet lag tended to affect him when travelling to these far-flung tracks, and he was exhausted. Thankfully, that was the exact reason they'd travelled out with a full clear day before the practice sessions. Knowing he couldn't let himself sleep just yet, John forced himself to his feet once more. He stripped off his clothes and jumped in the shower, letting the warm water strip away some of his tiredness.

Feeling somewhat more alive when he emerged, John made his way down to the hotel bar, where much of the team already appeared to have set up camp. He spotted Lestrade from the door and Lestrade waved him over, passing him one of the bottles of beer sitting in a bucket of ice on a low table in front of him.

"Almost time to start earning all that money we pay you," Lestrade teased, gesturing to the seat beside him.

"I like to think you get pretty good value for money," John rejoined.

"If you win us some races, it'll be even better value for money."

"Well then, looks like I've got my work cut out for me."

"That's not what I've been hearing," Lestrade said with a meaningful look. "It's all your crew can talk about."

"Well, I've got something to prove, haven't I?" 

"Not to me you haven't," Lestrade said in a serious tone, holding John's gaze for several beats, before continuing in a more lighthearted manner. "But feel free to show everyone else what I've always known you can achieve."

John smiled, slightly taken aback by Lestrade's faith in him. He just hoped he could live up to the expectation.

"Ah, Sherlock, there you are," Lestrade called a moment later. Sherlock joined them, exchanging a fleeting look with John, before turning his attention to Lestrade.

"Lestrade, I want to talk to you about some adjustments to my car."

"Geez, Sherlock, give us a moment to breathe, would you?" Lestrade answered with a laugh. "We'll be going through everything before first practice tomorrow."

Sherlock looked slightly put out. "Fine. But I need to talk to you about Anderson."

"What now?" Lestrade asked with a put-upon sigh.

"I've told you before, I can't work with the man."

"And I've told _you_ before, he's the best we've got."

"That's not true," Sherlock countered, looking at John. "Mike is the best you've got."

"And Mike's working with John," Lestrade said firmly. "Whatever issue you have with Anderson, I need you to fix it. He's your race engineer, for God's sake - I need you two working in sync."

"That is clearly never going to happen considering the man is an imbecile," Sherlock said angrily, before turning on his heel and leaving them.

John raised an eyebrow in Lestrade's direction but didn't dare comment. Lestrade scrubbed a hand across his face, slouching in his chair. 

"Don't know what I'm going to do about that," he murmured, half under his breath. 

"Personality clash?" John asked hesitantly.

"Yeah, something like that. Anderson's good at his job, it's just-" Lestrade cut himself off, seemingly realising it might not be appropriate to bad-mouth one driver to the other. "Anyway, my problem, not yours."

John gave him a small smile. 

"So, how are you going to spend your last day of freedom before we really put you to work?" Lestrade asked with a grin.

"Sleeping," John said. "That doesn't quite fit with the rock'n'roll F1 lifestyle, does it?"

Lestrade laughed. "I don't know anyone who actually lives the lifestyle everyone thinks you drivers do."

"Apart from Kimi, you mean?"

"Yeah, apart from him."

They shared a grin and fell into a comfortable silence, each seemingly lost in his own thoughts. All John could think about was that coming Sunday. Almost seven months had passed since he'd last driven competitively, and he had no idea - despite the assurances of his team - if he still had what it took to race with the best. Sunday could not come round quick enough, as far as he was concerned.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspiration for this narrative style comes from the very talented jupiter_ash and her stunning tennis AU, A Study in Winning. I hope she doesn't mind me adopting it :-)

_Welcome back to Melbourne, where we're an hour and a half away from the first race of the season. Now, Martin, what do you think about our line-up today?_

_Well, I don't think anyone was surprised to see Sebastian Vettel at the front. The world champion is still quick, but it's early days yet and with this new engine setup, anything could happen._

_What about John Watson, then? Starting just behind Vettel - did anyone expect that from him in his first race back?_

_Definitely not. The team has obviously been working really hard to get the car where they want it, but at the end of the day it all comes down to the driver, and I honestly didn't know if John could go out there and do the job after all these months._

_Oh yeah, it takes a lot of guts to get in the car again after any accident, and John's was a particularly horrible one._

_It was, but he's obviously determined to get back on form. I'm looking forward to seeing what he can do._

_And he's got his new teammate, Sherlock Holmes, at his back. Do you think that's going to help or hinder?_

_Depends what the team's plan is. Of course, they could always use Sherlock to back up the rest of the pack and give John the chance to go after Sebastian. We'll just have to wait and see._

_Yes, we will. Now, stay with us, ladies and gents, we've got plenty more to come before the race kicks off._

*

The garage was buzzing with activity as they prepared for the race. John stayed well out of the way at the back of the garage, but was keeping close watch over the proceedings. He knew his team could do their jobs blindfolded, but he still liked to watch them get the car ready for a race. 

Outside the garage, the pit lane swarmed with fans eager for a peek and members of the press angling for an interview. John avoided both, giving a wave and a smile where necessary, but not venturing any closer. He knew he wouldn't be able to hide once they were out on the grid, but he wanted at least a little bit of peace before then to calm his nerves. 

Lestrade came over and clapped him on the shoulder. "You ready for this?"

"Born ready," John quipped.

"Good good. We've got your back."

Lestrade wandered off again, casting an idle glance over the mechanics. He trusted his team to do their jobs, in the end, and he wasn't going to stand over anyone and watch. He headed over to the other side of the garage, where Sherlock was already sitting in the car, hands pressed together and resting against his chin, eyes closed. Sherlock didn't move when Lestrade addressed him, but gave a short reply. Lestrade said something else then moved away, clearly leaving him to his pre-race preparations.

John turned back to his own garage, his eyes sliding over to the clock. Only twenty minutes until they needed to be out on the grid. He let out a shaky breath, nodded to himself, then retreated to the changing room behind the garage for one last bathroom trip.

As he was coming out, he almost collided with Sherlock. "Sorry," he said automatically, stepping to one side.

Sherlock gave a grunt.

"Good luck," John added with forced politeness, and Sherlock turned pale eyes on him. 

"I don't believe in luck."

Having said that, Sherlock disappeared into the bathroom. John shook his head and, pushing his teammate's eccentricity to the back of his mind, he returned to the garage; it was time to make the final preparations for the race.

*

_The last driver takes his place on the grid and we are ready to start the first race of this 2014 season._

*

His heart was pounding in his chest, as he balanced the clutch, hands clutching the steering wheel. His eyes were glued to the lights just in front of him.

One red light. 

He let out a long breath, fingers poised over the gear paddle.

Two red lights.

_You can do this._

Three red lights.

He placed a little bit of pressure on the accelerator, the engine revving, the car ready to leap forward.

Four red lights.

_Come on, come on._

Five red lights.

The lights stayed on for what felt like an eternity, then finally went out, and John stamped on the accelerator, hurtling down towards the first corner. He could hear the roar of engines at his back but his entire focus was on the car just in front of him as he sped through the first bend. His blood was singing and inside his helmet he was grinning like a madman. 

*

_Well, this race has been something of a procession so far, and we're almost halfway through. There have been a few squabbles in the middle but out in front it's still Vettel leading from Watson from Holmes. Watson seems to be making up some ground with every lap, but he just can't get anywhere near close enough to that Red Bull._

_I think he's more focused on his teammate at his back at this stage, Martin. Holmes has been on his tail for at least five laps now. A brilliant show from him._

_We were expecting good things after his performance at the end of last year, but he's really pulled it out of the bag today. He's really giving Watson a challenge, but John's more than prepared - he is not going to give his teammate -_

_Oh, what's that?! Sorry to interrupt, Martin. That is smoke coming from the back of Vettel's car._

_He's slowing down._

_The leader is in trouble! He's pulling over to the side of the track. There is smoke everywhere._

_Looks like a gearbox failure. That's always been Red Bull's Achilles heel. Vettel is shaking his head._

_He's out of the car and the marshals are rushing in. What do you think, Martin, safety car?_

_They'd be foolish not to. He's only just off the racing line and that section is too narrow to risk it._

_Yes, we've just had confirmation: the safety car is on it's way out. This race just got a lot more interesting._

*

"Accident up ahead, John," Mike said over the radio - somewhat unnecessarily, as yellow flags were waving all over the place, warning them to slow down.

John couldn't remember lapping anyone yet, which meant only one thing: the race leader was out.

"You're leading the race now," Mike added, confirming John's suspicion.

A moment later, he passed his rival's smoking wreck of a car and let out a slightly hysterical laugh. He was in front in his first race back. It was more than he could ever have hoped for - now he just had to hold onto it. 

"Safety car should be picking you up soon," Mike informed him. "It's going to be at least three laps behind the safety car, maybe more. Try to keep those rear tyres warm."

"Got it," John confirmed, swerving from side to side in an attempt to keep some heat in the tyres. Keeping an F1 car warm - and therefore working properly - whilst doing less than optimal speed was always one of the biggest challenges. If he failed, his car would struggle to get back up to speed when they were racing once more and he could wave goodbye to first place.

Losing his spot was a legitimate concern: he could just make out the car behind him in the tiny wing mirrors. It had been the same ever since his pit stop just over five laps before. He must have lost some time in the pits, because he'd emerged to find his teammate right behind him. It was only his brand new tyres that had kept him in front during that first tense lap. 

He'd managed to open up a small gap over the following laps, but Sherlock was a persistent dark spot in John's mirrors. Now the laps behind the safety car would bring Sherlock into contention again, and John would have to fight to keep his car in front once more.

*

_The safety car is heading back in this lap and all bets are off._

_Watson's backing up the pack, getting ready to sprint away once they cross that safety car line._

_Unluckily for him, I don't think his teammate is going to make it that easy. This is Holmes' best chance to push._

_The safety car pulls into the pits and we are racing again._

_Watson and Holmes are off, side by side down the pit straight._

*

He hadn't been quick enough off the mark and as he accelerated down the main straight, he could see Sherlock's front wheels to the side of his car. He left his braking as late as he dared and just managed to stay in front through the first bend but he could practically feel Sherlock breathing down his neck.

"Easy," Mike said, a warning in his voice. 

John gritted his teeth, shoving his way through the next turn, blocking Sherlock's path once more. There was no way he was relinquishing first place to his jumped-up teammate.

Sherlock's front wheels once again appeared at his side, forcing him to take the corner wide in order to leave just enough space for the other car. 

"Careful, John."

"Tell him that," John snapped.

He dived in front of the other car, flooring the gas as they moved into one of the faster sections. Exploiting the tow from John's car, Sherlock managed to pull level as they sped through the curve of the track, then slowed for one of the bends. They went through two abreast, both jostling for space as they approached a sharp right-hander. 

*

_Holmes is pushing, but Watson is just ahead as they slow right down for that almost ninety degree turn._

_Oh, his car twitched just a little bit there._

_Holmes is going to pounce on that. And he is, he's going for the overtake._

_On that corner?! Madness._

_He's edging past, but - oh no, he's overcooked it! He's into the side of Watson's car, and they both go spinning. Watson and Holmes have collided and they're both off._

_Watson's got a problem with one of those wheel struts, he can't seem to get going again._

_Holmes has got a puncture!_

_The pack has caught up to them now and I'm sure they're both kicking themselves. Watson is pulling over, he's out. Holmes is limping back to the pits but his race is as good as over too._

_What a shame. But this isn't the first time we've seen teammates take each other out._

_No, and I'm sure it won't be the last. The team is not going to be happy with that, though._

_And Watson and Holmes are going to be gutted._

_I'm sure we'll hear all about it at the end. For now, back to the race, where Raikonnen now leads this exciting Australian Grand Prix._


	8. Chapter 8

The walk back to the pits was a long one, and by the time John reached the garage, he was seething. Lestrade took one look at him and beckoned him over, away from the ever-present cameras and presenters angling for a soundbite.

"No injuries?" Lestrade asked.

"No," he bit out.

"Good. Now go cool off in the back. There'll probably be a steward's inquiry after the race, but we'll deal with that when we come to it."

John nodded, glad Lestrade wasn't going to make him speak to the press; he simply wasn't in the mood. He ducked away into the back, and made his way through to the empty changing rooms. 

A hot shower did very little to wash away his fury, and he was almost shaking with it when he emerged. He towelled himself down roughly, and pulled on a pair of jeans and one of the team T-shirts, before making his way back out into the main changing room. He froze when he quickly realised he was not alone.

Sherlock didn't even move from his position, perched on one of the benches, hands pressed together against his lips. He gave John a brief glance, then went back to staring into space. It was enough to make John's blood boil.

"What the hell do you think you're playing at?!" he got out, storming over to stand in front of Sherlock.

Sherlock's eyes flicked up to his face, but his expression showed only indifference.

"That was my race!" John exploded.

"You turned in," Sherlock said evenly.

"I- I didn't turn in. You pushed. You pushed too hard and now we're both paying the price."

"Oh, please," Sherlock said with a hint of distaste, rising to his feet and brushing past John, clearly intent on leaving. John grabbed him by the arm.

"Hey! I'm not done."

"I'm not interested in listening to your excuses."

"Excuses?!" John spluttered. "You- you're unbelievable! You hit me. I was winning and you took me out."

"It was only a matter of time," Sherlock replied archly. "You don't have the confidence to win anymore."

John gaped, stunned into silence. He was so angry he felt like his chest might burst. He balled his fist at his side, the urge to punch his teammate right on the nose surging through him.

"Go on," Sherlock said in a low voice, lips twisting into snarl. "Just try it."

"Oi!" 

They both startled, stepping back as Lestrade strode in between them, giving them both a fierce look. 

"None of that," he warned. "You're both disappointed, I get that. But trust me, if you take one step out of line I will have you out on your arse so fast you won't even know what hit you."

Sherlock gave a dismissive noise and Lestrade's focus honed in on him. "If you think I can't find a dozen other drivers to replace you, you're very wrong. You think you're special, but you're not that special."

Lestrade let out a shaky breath, looking between them. "You're part of a team, just remember that. And you've let the whole team down today."

John went to protest, but Lestrade silenced him with an angry look. "Both of you. I don't care whose fault it was, I don't want to see anything like that again. Understood?"

John swallowed around the bile in his throat and gave a single nod. Lestrade turned to Sherlock, who hesitated for even longer before nodding.

"Good. Now get out of my sight, I can't bear to look at either of you. I've got to go clear up your mess, and I don't need to deal with temper tantrums on top of it."

John was more than happy to go. He turned on his heel and left, striding out of the garage area and heading for the nearest bar, ignoring every one of the reporters who called out to him on the way. 

*

The steward's inquiry was a joke. After hearing both sides of the story, they declared it to be just another 'driving incident'. It probably helped that they were on the same team, so no-one else had been disadvantaged, and Lestrade was quick to tell them just how lucky they were to get away without harming the team's chances any more with a grid penalty or other punishment. He still wasn't pleased with either of them and gave them another stern look before sending them on their way.

John returned to the hotel in a mood not much improved from earlier. The stewards were idiots if they couldn't see the whole thing had been Sherlock's fault. Sherlock was still fairly inexperienced, despite all his bluster, and he'd obviously taken a stupid risk. The fact that he wasn't prepared to admit it made John want to hit something - preferably his teammate.

The hotel bar was mostly empty, which suited John just fine - he wasn't exactly fit for company. He perched on one of the bar stools and downed a double measure of whiskey in one go, before signalling to the bartender for a refill. This one he took his time with, losing himself to reverie as his fingers tapped out an agitated rhythm against the glass.

He couldn't stop turning everything over in his head: the crash, Sherlock's accusations, the stewards' decision - and then it hit him. Of course, Sherlock's brother. A part-owner of Formula One would have no trouble persuading the stewards to dismiss the case against his brother. The thought made John even angrier than before, so furious he was on his feet and heading towards the lifts before he could even properly process it. 

The ride up to floor where both he and Sherlock were staying seemed to take forever, and John dived out of the lift as soon as the doors opened. He strode along the corridor to the room opposite his and hammered on the door. There was no immediate answer, so he pounded on the door again.

His foot was tapping with pent-up energy, and he kept clenching and unclenching his hands, his whole body trembling. Just when he was about to slam his fist against the wood again, the door flew open. 

Sherlock gave him a distasteful look. "What do you want?"

John barged past him into the room, spinning on his heel and jabbing a finger in Sherlock's direction.

"Your brother."

"What about him?" Sherlock said, regarding John with a look halfway between surprised and annoyed as he shut the door.

"He's the reason you got out of it."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"It's obvious," John snapped. "Any idiot could see that accident was your fault, but I guess if you've got a big brother-"

"It was not my fault. You turned in."

"You braked too late!" John retorted. "That was my race, my win-"

"You really think so?" Sherlock scoffed.

"You arrogant-"

"You really think you still have what it takes-"

"Would you just shut up?" John burst out. 

Somewhere along the line, he'd grabbed Sherlock's wrist, holding him still, and Sherlock's gaze now flicked to John's grip on his arm, then back up to John's eyes.

"Make me," he said with a smirk.

John stilled for a moment, chest heaving, his head spinning with confusion. "Wha-"

Sherlock dipped his head and pressed their mouths together, and John's mind went blank. Soft, warm lips shifted against his, too sure, too self-confident. It took only a heartbeat for him to regain his wits, and he let out a growl, fisting his hand in Sherlock's shirt and dragging him closer. 

He could feel Sherlock's smile, and he deliberately scraped his teeth over Sherlock's lip, drawing a guttural noise from him. John hummed and Sherlock shoved at his shoulders, forcing him back against the door. The impact jolted them apart and John raised wide eyes to Sherlock's.

"Problem?" Sherlock asked breathily. 

There was something about the haughty arrogance in his tone that set John on edge and he ground his teeth together. "Fuck you."

Sherlock laughed, a low, lascivious noise, and John found himself reaching out and dragging him back into a biting kiss. Teeth scraped and tongues tangled, anger and passion mingling, leaving John helplessly overwhelmed. Sherlock made a noise of satisfaction and pressed John into the door, one leg slotted between his, and John sucked on his tongue almost viciously.

It was complete madness. The very small part of John that retained rational thought knew this was twisted and quite possibly the most mental thing he'd ever done, but that didn't stop him from tugging at Sherlock's shirt until he could get his hands on bare skin. It didn't stop him from pushing away from the door and forcing Sherlock back with stumbling steps until they collapsed together on the bed.

When John broke away for breath, Sherlock gave him a look of approval laced with condescension and John responded by dipping his head and biting at the tendon in his neck. Sherlock made a choked noise and his hands went to John's belt, nimble fingers making quick work of the fastening. He tugged at the sides and in no time his hand closed around John's throbbing cock.

"Fuck," John groaned, jolted out of his attack on Sherlock's neck. 

Sherlock hummed, but said nothing, his breathing loud in John's ear. He passed his thumb over the head of John's cock and John bucked against him, letting out a desperate noise. He pushed himself back just far enough to get his hand into the space between them and went after the buttons of Sherlock's trousers. 

Finally, he managed to work his hand into the small space and wrapped it around Sherlock. Sherlock gave a gratifyingly high-pitched whine and arched up into John's touch, his grip tightening on John's cock.

"Oh God," John choked out, locking their mouths together again as he tugged on Sherlock's dick. He wanted to make the smug bastard shatter into pieces. Sherlock seemed to have the same idea, because his free hand shoved under the waistband of John's trousers, groping his arse and tugging them impossibly closer. 

Their cocks slid together and John let out a gasp, releasing his grip on Sherlock to take all his weight on his elbows. Sherlock guided their cocks together, long fingers wrapped partly around them both, the sight and sensation of it lighting up John's senses.

"Yes. Fuck, yes."

Sherlock gave him another maddeningly smug smile and John crushed their mouths together, his hips kicking back and forth. He wasn't going to last much longer, but damn it if he wasn't going to take Sherlock with him. He latched onto Sherlock's neck once more, and Sherlock let out a gasp, rocking up into him frantically.

Sherlock came first with a groan, his come making his grip wet and perfect and warm as John followed him with a shudder, his whole body jerking with his release. He felt drunk, drunker than his two whiskeys merited, and he somehow managed to manoeuvre himself onto the bed next to Sherlock, collapsing with his arm thrown across his face.

It was some time before he could focus his mind enough to realise what he'd done.

"Shit."

After a pause, Sherlock answered. "Dull."

He felt Sherlock shift beside him, and he took a deep breath before uncovering his eyes. Sherlock was getting to his feet, pulling a packet of cigarettes from his bedside table. He didn't even look at John. John couldn't stop his eyes from tracking across Sherlock's profile, and he quickly looked away again.

"If you're going to have some sort of moral crisis, feel free to leave."

John swallowed hard. "You don't think we should talk about what just happened?"

Sherlock turned to give him an incredulous look. "Why would we do that?"

John stared at him, then shook his head. "You know what, forget it." Anger threatened to resurface and he clambered off the bed, rushing to straighten himself up. When he raised his head again, Sherlock was watching him from the windowsill, lit cigarette tucked between his lips.

He squared his shoulders and met Sherlock's gaze head-on, forcing himself to ignore how much more human - softer, warmer, more appealing - Sherlock looked with rumpled clothing and wild hair. 

"This never happened."

Sherlock's lips quirked with amusement. "If you say so."

"I mean it."

"Yes, alright," Sherlock said with a dismissive wave, his expression turning to indifference once more. "You're already deceiving yourself about one thing, why not add this to the list."

John opened his mouth to reply, then snapped it shut again. He wasn't going to rise to the bait. 

"Goodnight," John got out, his mouth unbearably dry.

Sherlock didn't reply, and John could feel the heavy weight of Sherlock's gaze on him as he fled. He dashed across the corridor to his own room and shut the door behind him, sinking against it, his hands over his face.

"Shit, shit, shit."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *whistles innocently*


	9. Chapter 9

John slept fitfully - when he finally got to sleep - and woke the next morning feeling like hell. He sat up in bed and dragged his hands over his face, letting out a huff of breath. His mind was already building up steam, preparing to bombard him with a hundred images he wanted to forget, and he forced himself out of bed and into the shower, hoping to distract himself with action.

He turned the shower up until it was almost painfully hot, and for a short while it managed to drive away thoughts of pale skin and full lips, but it was only a matter of time before memories of the previous night broke through his defences. The onslaught left him hard and aching, and the touch of his own hand on his cock seemed somehow lacking in the cold light of morning. He tried not to think of slim fingers wrapped around his length and failed miserably, his mind running away with itself as he tugged at his cock, almost desperate to have it over and done with. He came biting his lip, eyes squeezed shut, the vision of a long pale throat and a dark head thrown back in pleasure flashing behind his closed eyes. 

Afterward, John sat on the edge of his bed for some time, trying to work his way through the tumult of his thoughts. He had long since come to terms with his somewhat flexible heterosexuality, so it wasn't the fact that Sherlock was a man that bothered him, but it was hard to put his finger on what it was that left him feeling unsettled. It also wouldn't be the first time people working on the same teams got a little bit more than friendly - he certainly knew enough couples on the scene who had started out working together - but that didn't help calm his overwrought nerves.

When he forced himself to work through what had happened step by step, he found himself faltering at the point when angry words had turned to biting kisses. It was clear with hindsight that Sherlock had been pushing him, goading him - but to what end? And John - he'd gone to Sherlock's room with anger pulsing through him, the desire for violence hard to ignore, and instead he'd ended up bedding his teammate in what he fully admitted was one of the hottest experiences of his life - ridiculous as that sounded, when all they'd shared was a bit of mutual masturbation. He'd been ready to exchange blows, and instead had been drawn into some sort of bizarre competition, where he'd been desperate to see his proud, haughty, bastard of a teammate taken down a peg or two, wrung out at John's hands.

And that was really what it all come down to, in the end. Once Sherlock had kissed him, had taken that first dangerous step, John had wanted nothing more than to take him apart. He'd wanted to obliterate that arrogance, to show Sherlock exactly what he was made of. It had been a fight for superiority, really no different to what had happened on the track, but John had never mixed rivalry with sex and that was, perhaps, what had left him on edge. John'd had a lot of sex in his thirty-odd years, but he'd never had sex with anyone he'd wanted to hit more than he'd wanted to kiss - at least, he'd wanted to hit Sherlock more, before he'd tasted those plush lips.

Distracted by his thoughts, John almost missed the knock on his door. It wasn't until the person knocked again that he scrambled to his feet, drawing his dressing gown around him. He hesitated at the door for just a moment, wondering what on earth he would do if Sherlock was on the other side, then opened it quickly. 

Luckily - perhaps - it was Mike's face that greeted him.

"Morning!" Mike said cheerfully. "Sorry, didn't wake you, did I?"

"No, it's fine. Come in."

John stepped back, throwing a wary look across the corridor as Mike entered, before closing the door behind him. 

"How are you doing?" Mike asked, turning to him with a sympathetic look.

"I'm okay, really," John reassured him. He'd long since forgotten about the drama which had occurred on the track. "Not the first time I've crashed out."

"And at least neither of you got a penalty."

"No," John conceded, before continuing awkwardly. "So... have you seen Sherlock this morning?"

"Not yet," Mike said. "He usually sleeps late after a race."

"Oh, right."

Mike gave him a slightly odd look, but then pressed on. "Well, I know you won't be too keen on this given what happened, but it would be good if we could go through the telemetry from the car, while it's all still fresh in your mind."

"Right, of course."

"If you'd rather wait..."

"No. Let me just get dressed and I'll meet you downstairs in five minutes, okay?"

"Brilliant." Mike beamed at him and headed back towards the door. "See you in a bit."

Mike pulled the door shut behind him and John took several deep breaths, before forcing himself into motion. He tugged on jeans and a T-shirt, smoothed down his hair as best he could, then slipped on his shoes. With a last grimace at his own face in the mirror, he threw open the door - just as the door opposite opened at Molly's insistent knock.

"Oh, hi John," Molly said, turning towards him.

"Hi."

He smiled weakly, his eyes drifting to where Sherlock leaned against his open door, watching them both with indifference. His hair was ruffled, his dressing gown hanging slightly from one shoulder, and John had to drag his eyes away - but not before he'd caught sight of a red mark low on Sherlock's neck.

"I hope you brought coffee," Sherlock finally said, addressing Molly.

She held up the takeaway cup in her hand and Sherlock nodded, taking it and retreating into his room. Molly turned to give John another faint smile, and John finally forced himself into motion.

"See you later," he said with faked cheer, then turned to make his way along the corridor to the lift. 

It was only when the lift doors shut behind him that he let himself sag against the wall, burying his head in his hands. He was an idiot, a complete and utter idiot. Even now, all he could think about was the long, smooth expanse of Sherlock's neck - and the mark that he had left on it. 

"Fuck," he muttered to himself. 

He'd really cocked up now, and judging by Sherlock's decision to blank him, dealing with the fallout was not going to be straightforward. He got the feeling Sherlock was not someone he could have any kind of simple conversation with; there would be no laughing it off, no 'let's just be friends' - but then, they hadn't been friends to start with. 

He sighed, and pushed himself off the wall as the lift doors opened. All he could do now was congratulate himself on making an already difficult relationship even more strained. There was no way he could avoid Sherlock either, so he'd just have to suck it up and deal with whatever Sherlock threw at him. 

Mike smiled warmly as John joined him and John returned it with effort. He couldn't let himself dwell on what had happened, after all - he had a job to do. He would simply devote himself to his work, to the exclusion of all else, and maybe then he'd be able to get through the rest of the season with a teammate he was going to be fantasising about for some time still.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry it's been so long since I updated - I've had no internet for three weeks! The good news, though, is that I have used my internet-less time productively by writing a couple more chapters of this :-) Enjoy.

John had a day and a half of respite as the team packed up and prepared to move on, far too busy to even think about Sherlock. There was a lot to do, although in all truth John wasn't really needed for much of it - even so, he volunteered for as many menial tasks as he could, just to keep himself busy. At least it had the added side effect of winning him some kudos with his team.

After most of the packing up was done, a small subset of the team - drivers, senior engineers and a few others - flew into Sydney ahead of a sponsor's event the same evening. Much as he felt like crashing in his latest hotel room, John had no choice but to dig out some clothes that were at least vaguely acceptable and get himself ready for another evening of fake smiles and mindless chatter. It was one of the things he disliked the most about the job, but he knew it was something that needed to be done - and at least it might prove to be a pleasant distraction.

As he dressed, he found his mind betraying him and straying to thoughts of Sherlock. Two days on, he could still remember with a distracting level of detail the way Sherlock had arched underneath him. He shook his head, trying to dismiss the images, and focused on his reflection in the mirror. He frowned at himself, then straightened and turned away. Best to get this over with. 

He made his way down to the lobby, where a chauffeur was waiting. He grinned at John and led him towards a ridiculously ostentatious Bentley with blacked-out windows. John forced a smile as the driver held the door for him, only letting it slip away once the door was shut behind him. 

His gaze was drawn instantly to the other side of the car, where Sherlock sat contemplating the cityscape beyond the window. John's eyes flickered over Sherlock's profile, an all-encompassing glance that took in perfectly tailored trousers beneath a form-fitting shirt, open at the neck and revealing a long vee of pale skin, and then up to dark curls tumbling over his collar. Dragging his eyes away, John let out a quiet sigh and fixed his gaze straight ahead as the car pulled away. 

Five minutes passed in tense silence as the car crawled through the centre of the city, until John could take it no more.

"I think we need to talk," he said, turning towards Sherlock.

Sherlock didn't move as he replied: "I have nothing to say."

John pursed his lips, took a deep breath and let it out, then forged onwards.

"Look, can we at least be civil?"

Sherlock's reflection raised an eyebrow.

"I don't like pretence."

"Yeah well, I don't like being out of a job. Lestrade obviously wants us to get along for the sake of the team-"

"Lestrade is an idiot."

John closed his eyes and let out a huff of breath. "God, could you just be... helpful, for once." 

He opened his eyes again to find Sherlock watching him intently. John swallowed hard and tore his gaze away, fixing it on the partition behind the driver's seat.

"We're both adults," he said quietly. "Can we just accept that what happened was a mistake and move on?"

"Was it a mistake?" Sherlock asked coolly.

"We're not exactly friends."

"I didn't realise that was a prerequisite for sex."

"I don't even like you," John added, politeness abandoned in his frustration.

Sherlock made a noise that might have been amusement. "You seemed to like me well enough when I had my hand around your cock."

John clenched his jaw and stared helplessly at the roof, hoping for divine intervention. What could he say to that? It was true, after all.

He startled as a hand settled on his thigh, and his wide-eyed gaze flew to Sherlock, who had stealthily moved closer. John's mouth went dry and he found his eyes moving of their own accord to plump lips, then dropping to the curve of Sherlock's neck.

"What - I don't understand," he said shakily.

"It's very simple," Sherlock said in a low voice. "I'm attracted to you."

John scoffed, regaining some of his wits. "Yeah, I really got the impression you fancied me when you were busy insulting me every chance you got. Unless playground tactics are your style."

To his surprise, Sherlock's reply was a disconcerting smile. He looked very pleased with himself. 

"What?" 

"You get so very defensive around me."

John blinked. "Is this... some sort of game for you?"

"Tell me you don't enjoy it too."

"You're mad."

"And you're half-hard right now just from talking to me."

John let out a gust of breath, dragging his eyes away from Sherlock. Damn it, he _was_ getting hard - what the hell was wrong with him?

"John, this could all be very simple. You clearly want to sleep with me again-"

"Presumptuous," John interrupted, turning to give Sherlock a glare.

Sherlock bit his lip, drawing John's helpless gaze, and Sherlock smirked.

"Really?" he teased.

John forced himself to turn away. "I'm not interested."

"You're an awful liar."

"Could you not..." He trailed off helplessly as Sherlock's hand slid to his hip, fingers resting in the crease of his groin. 

"John," Sherlock murmured. "Why are you fighting this?"

John let out a shuddering breath. He couldn't quite remember why this was a bad idea.

The car jerked to a halt and they separated quickly, turning to the door as it opened. John straightened and climbed out, nerves electrified and on edge as Sherlock got out and came to stand next to him.

"Think about it," Sherlock whispered as a crowd descended on them. 

For a few seconds, John was helpless to do anything but picture Sherlock writhing underneath him. With great effort, he blinked it away and smiled for the cameras, constantly aware of the small distance between him and Sherlock. God, he was messed up.

*

The evening passed in something of a daze, with John spending most of his time trying to get his head around what had happened in the car. It was very rare that he was the one being pursued, rather than doing the pursuing, but being pursued by Sherlock felt very much like being targeted by a bird of prey. He almost expected Sherlock to come swooping in and take him away at any moment, and he wasn't quite sure what to make of his own confused response to the idea: his mind scoffed and called him an idiot, but his body was aching, desperate for it.

The problem was that John couldn't quite understand how he had gone from hating someone so fervently to wanting nothing more than to get them into a bed right that instant. He had noticed Sherlock's looks, of course he had, but he hadn't given them more than a passing thought until two days ago. Now all he could think about was pale skin and dark curls and long fingers and - 

"Here."

John jolted out of his reverie to find Sherlock standing a foot away, holding out a glass of whiskey. John took it hesitantly.

"Err, thank you."

He looked at the contents of the glass for a moment, then downed them in one go. Sherlock was smiling around his own glass when John looked up again.

"What?" John snapped, instantly on edge.

"I've unsettled you."

John fiddled with his glass, unable to think of an answer other than 'sod off'.

"I would apologise," Sherlock continued. "But I'm not particularly sorry for my actions."

John snorted in helpless amusement. "You're a dick. And what's this, then?" he asked, nodding to his glass. "Change of tactics? Trying to win me over by being nice for a change?"

"Maybe I'm just trying to get you drunk so I can take advantage of you."

John considered him for a moment. "Doesn't strike me as your style."

"Oh?"

"I think you like your victims fully cognisant."

"Victims?" Sherlock echoed with an amused smile. "You make it sound like the other party has no choice."

"You're dangerously persuasive."

Sherlock chuckled. "It doesn't usually require as much persuasion as in this instance."

"You mean they usually just fall at your feet?"

"Now and then," Sherlock said with a little shrug. "But I like a challenge." He met John's gaze and held it.

"Yeah, I'm getting that," John answered, swallowing hard.

"John," Sherlock whispered, seeming to sense that John's defences were weakened as he stepped in close. "Come with me."

"We can't just leave," John said weakly, "We're the guests of honour."

"Everyone's far too drunk to notice," Sherlock said with a dismissive wave. "John..." He spoke John's name in a low rumble that sent shivers down John's spine and made warmth bloom low in his guts. 

As soon as John's shoulders dropped, Sherlock took hold of his arm, steering him towards the door. 

"What's the rush?" John got out, giving a startled laugh.

"I want you, now."

John looked around in a panic, but no-one was close enough - or indeed sober enough - to hear Sherlock's words. 

Sherlock guided him to the waiting car then snapped at the driver to take them back to the hotel. The driver nodded and the screen slid up behind his seat. It was barely closed before Sherlock pounced, diving in and capturing John's mouth in a frantic kiss. John moaned and reached out helplessly, fisting his hands in Sherlock's shirt and tugging him closer. 

Sherlock came willingly and before John had quite caught up, Sherlock was perched across his lap and sliding his tongue past John's teeth. John made a desperate noise, hands clenching around Sherlock's hips as Sherlock curled into him, pressing their bodies together. 

John tore himself away and gasped, painfully hard in his trousers already. "Wait."

Sherlock hummed, his mouth going to John's neck. "I hope you're not going to change your mind now."

"No, but I don't fancy getting it on in the back of the sponsor's car."

Sherlock laughed against John's skin. "I don't see why not."

John eased Sherlock back, and Sherlock gave him an amused look. 

"If we're doing this... I plan to take my time," John got out in his best attempt at an even tone and Sherlock's eyes widened, then went heavy-lidded with pleasure. He smiled lazily and slid down into the seat next to John, pressing a hand deliberately to the straining front of his trousers. John looked away, focusing on his breathing as he tried to calm the pounding in his chest and the throbbing in his cock. Now that he had made the decision, his body had only one aim in sight: getting Sherlock to a bed and taking him to pieces. He would worry about what that said about his mental health afterwards.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry again for the delay - I am now at 5 weeks without internet at home, and trying desperately to eke out my 3G allowance. Thanks for sticking it out with me, and I hope this chapter makes up for it a bit :-)

The door of Sherlock's room clicked shut behind them and for just a moment, they stood there looking at each other, not moving. John let his eyes trail over Sherlock, taking in the flush over his cheekbones and down his neck. Sherlock slanted a smile at him, knowing, challenging, and moved to push himself away from the door, but John shifted first, pinning him back against it with a hand on each arm. 

Sherlock's eyes widened just a little, before that familiar smirk settled back over his face. 

"I hope you're not just going to stand there all night."

John grinned and, emboldened, leaned in to press his lips to the very bottom of Sherlock's neck, delighting in the momentary hitch in Sherlock's breath. 

"Maybe I should. Teach you a lesson."

He parted his lips, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to Sherlock's neck, and Sherlock let out a hiss of breath. John smiled softly, and swiped his tongue over warm skin. Maybe he was a little drunk after all, because he felt like resting here forever, his mouth over Sherlock's pulse. He could feel heat blooming low in his groin, but he had no urge to charge ahead just yet. He smoothed a hand down Sherlock's side, curling his fingers around a bony hip as Sherlock pressed forward, his erection hard against John's belly. It felt nice to be wanted so badly.

"John," Sherlock said, a hint of impatience in his voice. 

John finally moved, lifting his head just as Sherlock shrugged free of his grip and raised both hands to cup his face, drawing him into a hungry kiss. 

With the first touch of their lips, all thoughts of slow and steady fled his mind and he pressed Sherlock into the door. Sherlock hummed and deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding over John's.

By the time they parted for breath, John was rock hard and aching. Sherlock pushed him back just a few inches and John watched him with confusion until Sherlock dropped to a crouch, back against the door. His intent was clear and he held John's gaze as he went for the fastenings on John's trousers. John pressed his hands to the door, legs shaking at the mere suggestion. 

Sherlock drew his cock out gently, watching John under his eyelashes as he leaned in and ran his tongue around the head.

"Fuck," John breathed, fighting to keep his hips still. 

Sherlock hummed and took him in slowly, tongue flicking at the underside. John shuddered and dropped one hand to press his thumb against the edge of Sherlock's mouth where it curled around his length. 

"Knew you'd look good like this," he whispered, and Sherlock swallowed him down again, heated gaze locked on John's. 

It was almost too much, Sherlock's mouth hot and wet and perfect around him. Not to mention seeing the arrogant git at John's feet, worshipping his cock with tongue and lips. John groaned and closed his eyes as Sherlock hollowed his cheeks, sucking him hard.

"Oh, God."

Sherlock grabbed John's hips, holding him steady as he bobbed his head at a dizzying pace. John pressed both hands against the door again, mostly to keep himself upright as his knees threatened to give way. It was too much, after so long without.

"Yes. Fuck. Sherlock, I'm-"

He didn't get to finish his sentence as Sherlock took him all the way in until his nose was pressed to John's groin, then swallowed obscenely. John gave a shout as he came, jerking helplessly. 

"Jesus," he breathed, his head lolling against his arm. 

Sherlock released him with a slurp, eyes heavy-lidded with pleasure as he unfolded himself and got to his feet. His lips were swollen and red, and John was unable to resist the impulse to drag him down into a kiss. He dipped his tongue into Sherlock's mouth, tasting himself, and Sherlock gave a low moan.

John tore himself away, hands pressed to Sherlock's chest. "Bed. Now."

Sherlock's eyes went wide with lust, then he smirked, slipped out under John's arm and practically sashayed over to the bed. He stopped at the end and turned back to John, hands going to the buttons of his shirt. John was content to watch, catching his breath as Sherlock slowly undid his shirt and slipped it from his shoulders. When his hands moved to his trousers, John was compelled forward to take over. 

He pushed Sherlock's hands away and worked the material free from its buttons, letting the trousers slide to the floor as he cupped his palm over the erection straining at Sherlock's boxers. Sherlock made a strangled noise, pressing into John's hand.

"Lie down," John said.

Sherlock lowered himself onto the bed, propping himself up on his elbows as he watched John with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. 

"What?" John asked, crawling over him.

"I hadn't imagined you taking charge so forcefully."

"Is that a problem?" 

"Not at all," Sherlock murmured, inhaling sharply as John traced a finger over his nipple. "I just thought I might have to seduce you a little more."

"You've done enough of that with your gorgeous mouth," John said honestly, pressing his thumb to Sherlock's lower lip. Sherlock smiled and flicked his tongue against John's skin. 

"I've been told it's one of my best features."

"Especially when it's not talking," John said with a grin, bending his head to cover Sherlock's mouth with his own. Sherlock made a noise in the back of his throat, hooking his leg around John's hip and rutting against him. John hadn't expected to get hard again, but his cock was already thickening and lengthening with the fantasy of shagging Sherlock into the mattress. He thrust forward instinctively, his free hand clenching around Sherlock's thigh.

Sherlock broke away, panting, his face pressed to John's neck.

"I've got no objections to intercourse."

"Oh God." John's cock gave a twitch of keen interest. 

"In fact, you'll find there are very few things I'll say no to."

"You're really not helping," John got out, pressing his face into Sherlock's collarbone.

Sherlock laughed, a delicious rumble of noise that vibrated through John and did very little to help his composure. 

"Let me be _helpful_ then," Sherlock said, shoving at John's chest until John dropped onto his back. Sherlock crawled over him, rubbing his arse shamelessly over John's covered erection. John's eyelids fluttered and he reached out for Sherlock's hips, tugging him down as John ground up.

"Give me your hand."

John raised his left hand and Sherlock took hold of it, drawing the first two fingers into his mouth. Sherlock gave a low hum, rolling his hips and rubbing against John's erection. With his free hand, Sherlock tugged at his boxers until his cock sprang free, wrapping his hand around it and groaning around John's fingers.

The sight of Sherlock's hand sliding over his own cock while he sucked on John's fingers was almost enough to send John over the edge again. He bolted upright, slipping his fingers free of Sherlock's mouth and kissing him hard. John managed to slip his hand past the waistband of Sherlock's boxers, and curled his fingers into the space behind his sac. Sherlock gave a choked cry, his hand speeding up.

John pushed his fingers further backward, the tip of his forefinger brushing over Sherlock's hole. Sherlock ground down against his hand, tearing his mouth free from John's.

"Both of them," he gasped out. "Now."

"Are you sure?"

"Now," Sherlock growled and John obeyed, sliding both fingers home. "Yes, yes."

Sherlock let out a desperate cry and shuddered against him, come splattering over John's shirt and Sherlock's bare stomach. John followed him helplessly, his cock twitching inside his boxers, warm come settling against his leg.

They disentangled themselves carefully and collapsed on the bed, side-by-side.

"Well, fuck," John gasped out after a pause.

"Mmm."

When John turned his head, Sherlock looked deliciously dishevelled: eyes half-closed, lips red, still-hard cock resting against his stomach.

"Next time, I might actually get round to taking some clothes off," John commented.

Sherlock smiled lazily, his eyes flicking to John. "Can't wait."

John smiled back, then cleared his throat. "So... This is something that might happen again?"

"I'm not looking for a relationship," Sherlock said bluntly.

"No, of course not. Neither am I."

Sherlock grinned. "So we're understood."

John held his gaze for a long moment, then nodded. "Looks like we are."

Sherlock hummed in agreement. He looked like he was about to drop off any second, and John decided it was time to leave him in peace. He felt a momentary pang of awkwardness, but then he pushed himself up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

"See you soon, John."

John glanced back at Sherlock, who had turned his head into his pillow, eyes closed. 

"See you soon."


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still no internet so I'm scraping by on my 3G - if you've left a comment, thank you. I have read them and they keep me going :-)

Malaysia was hot and sticky. They'd only flown in earlier that day, so John hadn't even begun to acclimatise yet. Even after the pleasant warmth of Australia, it was a shock to the system, the humidity almost unbearable, and even though night had set in, the heat remained.

Sweat gathered at the back of John's neck, under his arms, at the base of his spine. His clothes, abandoned on the floor, had been sticking to him in all sorts of unpleasant ways not long before, and even with the air conditioning cranked up, he was soaking. 

A bead of sweat trailed down his forehead to his nose, then hung suspended for a beat before falling onto the taut abdomen below him. 

"John," Sherlock groaned, one hand finding its way into John's damp hair. John smiled around Sherlock's length, tongue pressing against his frenulum. 

The heat barely registered as he set about taking Sherlock to pieces, just like he'd thought about doing too many times in the week since their last encounter. He'd finally given in after an hour of sitting around in his hotel room not knowing what to do with himself, and had made his way to Sherlock's room. 

It had been the first time John had initiated anything, and he hadn't been sure of his reception as he'd knocked on Sherlock's door and waited for an answer. Sherlock had opened the door, taken one long look at him, infuriatingly blank, then dragged him inside and straight into a filthy kiss, tongue sliding obscenely over John's. Not long after that, John'd had him naked and spread out on the bed beneath him.

John pulled off now, ignoring Sherlock's impatient noise as he dropped down to mouth gently at Sherlock's sac. Sherlock let out a huff of breath, arching his back slightly, and John let his tongue slide lower, pressing against Sherlock's perineum. Sherlock choked out a moan, spreading his legs shamelessly. 

John hummed and pressed in closer, flicking his tongue quickly over Sherlock's hole, testing the boundaries. Sherlock made a somewhat undignified noise and John smiled. "Alright?"

"Get on with it," Sherlock got out breathlessly, missing snarky and impatient by a mile.

John grinned and touched his tongue to Sherlock's perineum once more, just short of his hole so that Sherlock arched helplessly underneath him. 

"John," Sherlock groaned. 

John reached up and stroked his cock, a quick up-down that he knew would do little to help. Sherlock made another deliciously desperate noise, thrusting his groin into John's face.

Taking pity on him, and desperate to taste him again, John circled Sherlock's hole with his tongue, revelling in the musky, intimate taste of him. He let out his own groan, an echo of Sherlock's, and swiped over the tight ring of muscle, delighting in Sherlock's sharp intake of breath. 

"John, I swear, if you don't-"

Whatever Sherlock was about to say was cut off as John finally obliged, lapping hungrily at Sherlock's hole, pressing insistently as it yielded under the onslaught. Sherlock was making the most ridiculous, beautiful noises, half choking, half whining, and they rose in pitch as John reached up to stroke his cock again. 

"Fuck, Jo-ohn."

John could feel Sherlock's body tensing, the muscles in his thighs twitching, and he let go of Sherlock's cock to slide both hands under his arse and tilt him up into John's eager mouth. Sherlock was shaking, falling apart with every twist of John's tongue. John pressed inside as much as he was able as Sherlock moaned, long and low, and before John could lay a hand on him again, he was coming over his stomach with a shout. 

John kept going until Sherlock wriggled out of reach, then let out a gasp as his own arousal threatened to overwhelm him.

"Get your trousers off and get up here now," Sherlock demanded in a hoarse voice.

John hurried to strip off his remaining clothes then moved until he was straddling Sherlock's waist, his hand already wrapped around his cock. Sherlock looked like an absolute mess, but there was a determined brightness in his eyes as he urged John forward until he could wrap his lips around John's cock.

"Oh God, yeah, that's it," John groaned, fisting a hand in Sherlock's hair. It was all he could do to keep himself from fucking himself to completion in that warm mouth. 

Sherlock took him in deep, guiding John to rock inside him, his hollowed cheeks providing perfect suction. 

"Yes," John breathed. "Yes."

He could feel his climax building, working its way through his body, and he tried to hold off as long as possible, but with one hard suck from Sherlock he was hurtling over the edge. 

"Ohhhh."

He emptied himself into Sherlock's mouth and then, when his legs threatened to give out, collapsed to the bed beside him. He spent several moments trying to breathe normally, then let out a shaky laugh, pressing a hand to his forehead. 

"What is it?" Sherlock asked.

"Nothing," John replied with a grin, high on endorphins and the smug satisfaction of taking Sherlock apart. 

They passed a little while longer in silence, until Sherlock spoke up again, his tone suddenly serious.

"You should know, John, that whatever happens here... it changes nothing out on the track."

John blinked and pushed himself up on his elbows to look at Sherlock. 

"Of course not," he finally returned. 

"Good," Sherlock said. "I'm glad you understand."

John gave a huff, part-amusement, part-annoyance, and sat up. "I should be going. Need to get an early night for tomorrow."

Sherlock only hummed in reply, turning over and practically waving his delectable arse in John's face. John forced himself up, retrieving his clothes from the floor and pulling them on. 

"I'll see you tomorrow then. Good luck."

"I don't need luck," Sherlock mumbled.

John rolled his eyes and let himself out, slipping down the corridor to his own room. He stripped off down to his boxers and collapsed on the bed, his body sleepy and warm with a post-coital pleasantness. He could still taste Sherlock, a lingering muskiness that made his stomach warm with the memory. That one would stick with him for some time. He hummed and shifted until he was more comfortable in bed, letting his eyes flutter closed as he imagined taking Sherlock to pieces in a dozen other delightful ways.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this update has been so long coming - I'm working on it! Thank you to all of you who are still reading.

_Welcome to the Malaysian Grand Prix, one of the most difficult races of this part of the season. It's over 40 degrees, humidity is close to 80%, and plenty of good drivers just cannot cope in these conditions._

_The heat definitely got to some of the drivers in qualifying yesterday, Martin. Some unexpected losses, there._

_Perhaps most surprisingly was Sebastian Vettel, who failed to make it through to Q3._

_It's been a while since we've seen the World Champion lose his cool, but his performance yesterday was just not up to scratch._

_No, it really wasn't. But one driver who did manage to stay cool, calm and collected was our pole sitter, John Watson. A brilliant qualifying for Watson yesterday, a full five tenths ahead of his teammate in second place._

_It was a great comeback after that disappointing start to his season two weeks ago. But he's got a tough job on his plate, especially with his teammate breathing down his neck. Let's hope we don't see a repeat of the crash that ruined both their races in Australia._

_I'm sure Greg Lestrade will've had a strong word or two for both of them after that last race._

_Let's find out as we head over to Helen, who's speaking to Greg now._

*

John sat in the changing room, sipping from a bottle of water. He still had some time before he needed to head out to the garage, and was glad to be out of the heat. Even the short walk from the hotel had left him in a light sweat, and he wasn't exactly looking forward to being zipped up into a sweaty suit and squeezed into a cramped cockpit for two hours. 

He was on pole, though, and that was enough to lift his spirits: it'd been over a year since he was last on pole, and this race was one where it was a definite advantage. If he could keep it together, he had a very good chance of winning. He shook his head and took another swallow of his drink - he wasn't going to get ahead of himself. He was drawn out of his reverie as the door swung open and a familiar face appeared.

"John, there you are." Mike dropped onto the bench beside him with a grimace, drawing a hand over his sweaty forehead. "Don't blame you for hiding out in this weather. It's unbearable."

"How's the car looking?"

"It's looking good. And keeping cooler than I am."

John smiled. "Glad to hear it."

"You know, you've got a really good shot at winning today."

"Don't jinx it," John said quickly, half-joking. "I'm going to go out there and try my best. We'll see what happens."

"Alright, then."

Mike let out a little huff of breath, pressing his back against the cool, tiled wall. At that point, the door opened and Sherlock appeared, flushed and frowning.

"Alright, Sherlock?" Mike called out cheerfully. 

Sherlock grunted, before throwing himself down on a bench opposite them, sprawled along it with his arm over his face. John's gaze was drawn helplessly over the taut lines of his chest and stomach, clearly visible through the thin under-layer, and he forced his gaze away, taking another sip from his water bottle even as his cock twitched with interest. 

The door opened again to admit Anderson, who came to a stop in front of Sherlock, arms crossed over his chest. 

"As I was saying, if we tweak the nose just a few millimetres-"

"Kindly refrain from discussing strategy in front of the competition," Sherlock drawled. 

John and Mike shared an amused look as Anderson glanced over at them then turned his attention back to Sherlock.

"If you hadn't stormed off-"

"I can only take so much of your idiocy. I've had more than enough now. Please go."

Anderson huffed and puffed a little but finally his shoulders dropped and he left once more, a slightly awkward silence settling over the room. 

Mike cleared his throat and got to his feet, addressing John. "I've got a few last checks to make. Stay here as long as you can, in the cool."

"Will do."

Mike threw a look at Sherlock, then ducked out of the room. John's eyes were drawn to Sherlock again and he couldn't stop himself from remembering in vivid detail how Sherlock had fallen apart under John's tongue just a few evenings ago.

"Stop it."

"Stop what?" John asked with a surprised laugh. 

"You're distracting. I can practically hear you thinking."

"I'm distracting? You're the one lounging around, showing off your body... Practically begging for it."

Sherlock scowled and sat up quickly, finally meeting John's eyes with a sour look. "I don't beg."

"Not what it sounded like the other night."

Sherlock frowned and John pushed himself to his feet, closing the distance between them in three quick steps. Sherlock being disconcerted was far too good an opportunity to miss, and John was already thinking about how to get him in a quiet, secluded place. He bent down, ready to whisper in Sherlock's ear, but froze as soon as he felt a hand on his chest. 

Sherlock pushed him away and got to his feet, and John knew he'd done something wrong instantly - Sherlock's expression had shut down into that old haughty indifference.

"If you'll excuse me, I have a race to get ready for."

John blinked at the coldness in his tone and stepped aside awkwardly. Sherlock gave him an even look, then made his way out of the changing room, leaving John half-hard and more than a little confused. 

There was no time to ponder what had just happened, though, because only a few moments later, one of the pit team was coming to fetch him and it was time to prepare himself for the race. 

*

_And they turn the corner into lap three of what is already promising to be a thrilling race. Watson is still in front, but only just - his teammate Holmes is breathing right down his neck._

_Holmes almost had him at the start, which we can see as we watch the replay._

_Look at the way Holmes jumps off that start line._

_He was almost level with Watson at the first corner, but Watson just managed to get his nose in front and stay there._

_And look at this, Holmes is going for it again! He's not even at the DRS zone yet and he's already pushing._

_Oh, Watson just manages to keep ahead as they go through that corner. This is shaping up to be an exciting race already._

*

Sometimes, when you were racing hard, you could practically feel the other driver at your back, a physical presence weighing down on you even as a few metres of car separated you in reality. John had never quite felt it as strongly as he did now, a constant awareness of Sherlock just behind him, attacking again and again. It was hard going, straining his concentration as he battled to stay in front time after time. He could almost hear Sherlock's voice in his head, snarling at him and shouting at him to move. It was enough to make him square his shoulders and grit his jaw, readying himself for a long fight. He wasn't going to let Sherlock's intimidation distract him. He had a race to win, and a teammate to beat.

*

_And Holmes comes out of the pits just metres behind Watson's car, retaking his place behind the leader, and you can tell he's frustrated._

_Watson played that superbly. He's determined to stay out in front and he's doing a great job of it._

_They've got five laps left. Is that going to be enough for Holmes to finally make the move he's been trying for the last fifty-one laps?_

_We'll soon see, because he's already closed the distance to Watson._

_Watson and Holmes really are giving us a masterclass today. Look at the way Watson just hits the apex there and floors it out the other side. If they continue to race anything like this, we've got an exciting season to look forward to!_

*

"That's it, John. Just keep going, keep holding him there."

John swept the car over to the far side of the track, ready for the next corner, cutting Sherlock off as he did so.

"Brilliant. Keep it up, mate," Mike said. 

Mike continued with a string of encouragement that faded into the background as John drove as hard and as fast as he could.

_You can do it. Almost there._

Another bend, and another, and every time he'd catch a glimpse of Sherlock's front wheel only inches from his rear one - and every time, he hit the accelerator just a fraction sooner, pushing out ahead once more.

"That's it, John!" Mike's voice was rising in pitch, his excitement getting the better of him, and John felt like his heart was going to burst in his chest as he turned into the home straight. Sherlock's car rounded the corner an instant later, a permanent silhouette in John's mirror, and John hit the gas as hard as could. 

*

_He's done it. John Watson has won the Malaysian Grand Prix!_

_What an outstanding drive from this man._

_And from his teammate. A one-two for the team and some of the best driving we've seen so far._

_John Watson is absolutely ecstatic as he waves to the crowds. This has been a long time coming._

_And look at his team going wild. This is one race none of them is going to forget anytime soon._

_And Raikonnen comes home in third, but all eyes are on the winner, John Watson, as he does his lap of honour. What a race!_

_Some truly great driving from Watson and Holmes. Now stay tuned for the trophy presentation and press conference, in just a few minutes._


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry it's taken this long to update. Now that Bring Me Back To Life is finished, I should be able to pay more attention to this one.

John was floating on a cloud of euphoria. He'd forgotten just how good it felt to win, how it left him giddy, intoxicated. As he stepped up onto the top step of the podium to a cheering crowd, he let out a laugh of sheer delight, raising his arms in the air. 

He turned to his left and Kimi reached out to pat him on the shoulder.

"Congratulations."

"Thanks, mate."

He wrapped an arm around Kimi's shoulders and they shared a clumsy half-hug before John drew away, his face stretched into a smile. 

He turned to his other side, reaching out blindly and clapping his hand on Sherlock's arm. He'd misjudged their respective heights - a step down on the podium, Sherlock still had about an inch over John - and he laughed. 

"Congratulations, mate."

Sherlock gave him a tight smile. "And you." 

John had only a moment to register the tension in Sherlock's body before his attention was dragged back to the announcer. He was presented with a trophy, and he gave it a kiss before raising it over his head. 

He set the trophy down as they finished presenting the others, and a photographer appeared to capture their triumph. Kimi and Sherlock crowded in close on either side and John smiled widely, an arm slung around each of them. 

A few photos later, Kimi stepped aside and John tightened his arm ever so slightly around Sherlock's waist. 

Mike joined them a moment later, carrying the constructor's trophy. He slapped John hard on the back. "Knew you could do it, mate."

John picked up his trophy and they posed for several more photos before most of the presenters started to slink away in anticipation of what was to come. Kimi was the first to his bottle of champagne and before he knew it, John was drenched in the stuff. John got to his own bottle and gave it a shake, before turning his sights on his teammate. Sherlock stepped back but John followed, reaching up to pour a generous helping over Sherlock's head. Sherlock scowled, pushing wet hair out of his face as John downed a mouthful of bubbly champagne, smiling around the bottle. 

"That's a good look for you," he said playfully, but Sherlock didn't seem overly impressed. His own bottle of champagne stood unopened by the podium. 

Mike appeared from nowhere, having apparently avoided the champagne fight, and slung an arm around John's shoulders. "It's going to be one hell of a party tonight. Hope you've got your pulling pants on."

John laughed, eyes sliding to Sherlock as he tipped the bottle back and took another mouthful to save from answering.

They were eventually ushered away from the podium, given a chance to dry themselves off, then herded towards the press conference.

*

The party was already in full swing as John entered the hotel's bar. He'd barely had a chance to shower and change after the press conference before Sally had been pounding on his door and ordering him downstairs. 

John stepped inside and Greg spotted him straight away, crossing the room to grab him by the arms and draw him into a hug.

"The man of the hour!”

Greg stepped back. “Good job today. Knew you could do it."

"Thanks. It doesn't seem quite real."

Greg smiled. "Let me get you a beer."

"If you insist," John said with a laugh.

He followed Greg over to the bar, where he was surprised to see Sherlock knocking back his own drink as Greg signalled to the bartender.

"There you are," Greg said to Sherlock, patting him on the back. "Good job."

Sherlock made a face, but Greg had already turned back to John. "I couldn't have asked for more from either of you today. I'm glad you've got over whatever problem you had."

"We worked it out," John said, just about managing to keep a straight face. The champagne must’ve been going to his head already.

"Good. This is just the start of a great season, I can feel it in my loins."

John laughed. "How much have you had to drink already?"

"Not enough." Greg waved at the bartender for another drink. Once he'd got it, he raised it towards John and Sherlock. "Here's to the two best drivers in Malaysia."

"Cheers," they echoed, although Sherlock's reply was somewhat more subdued. 

"Now, if you'll excuse me, there's a lovely lady over there I need to talk to."

Greg slinked away, and John turned to Sherlock, but before he could even open his mouth, Molly appeared with a sheepish look. She said nothing but Sherlock made a loud noise of annoyance, before finishing the last of his drink.

"Where?" he bit out.

"Your room."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, then set his glass down. "Good evening."

He swept away, and John turned to Molly, raising an eyebrow. Molly gave him a little shrug.

"Congratulations on your win."

"Oh, thank you."

There was a moment of awkward silence, before Molly spoke up again. "Well, I'd better..." She waved vaguely at the room.

"Of course, yes."

John stepped aside to let her past, and gave her a small wave as she went. He leaned back against the bar, watching the crowd, and he couldn't help but feel a wave of loneliness. He'd been out of this world for so long, and it had moved on so much in his absence, that he knew only a few people. 

"Congratulations!"

He turned to find a dark-haired woman smiling up at him over her colourful cocktail.

“Oh, thanks.”

“You’ve got a very impressive driving style,” she commented with what could only be described as a coquettish smile. 

John blinked. It’d been a while since he’d been flirted with, and it took a moment to register that this was exactly what was happening. The woman placed a hand on his arm, displaying more than a bit of cleavage as she leaned in.

“I’m Jenny.”

“I’m John.”

“I know,” she answered with a laugh.

“Of course, yeah.” 

This was the moment when, a few years ago, John would have put on his most charming smile, would have let his hand settle over hers as he guided her over to a nearby chair. He could see it all in his mind’s eye - the inevitable trajectory of this evening - and it left him completely unmoved.

He patted Jenny’s hand, gently removing it from his arm. “It’s so nice to meet you, Jenny. I’m really sorry though, I just need to go and talk to my PA. If you’ll excuse me…”

He escaped before she could say another word, and ducked out of the bar altogether. He wandered out into the lobby, but spotted a couple of journalists camped out and turned on his heel, heading in the opposite direction.

His feet led him to the lift without much thought, and he pressed the button for his floor. The lift doors opened and he stepped out, and collided with a solid form.

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”

The suited man gave him a barely-there smile, smoothing down his jacket. “Not at all, Mr. Watson.”

The man stepped into the lift, watching John intently until the doors closed. John frowned and turned back towards the corridor, his eyes skipping past his own room to the one a bit further along. It was too tempting to resist, champagne and adrenaline spurring him on.

He stopped at Sherlock’s door and hesitated for a heartbeat, before raising his hand and knocking.

“I told you to piss off!”

John startled. “Er, it’s John.”

The door opened and Sherlock gave him a look that wasn’t quite contrite. “I thought you were someone else.”

“Well, good,” John said awkwardly. 

Sherlock retreated into his room in clear invitation and John stepped inside. Sherlock took his jacket from the bed and threw it into a nearby chair.

“Everything alright?”

“I have absolutely no desire to talk about this waste of a day.”

“Waste of a day? You came second.”

“I should have won,” Sherlock returned.

John froze, stunned. 

“You’re better than I thought you were,” Sherlock said with a frown, running a hand over his already messy hair.

“Er, thank you.” John gave a hesitant laugh.

Sherlock made a sound of frustration. “I can’t figure you out at all.”

John raised an eyebrow, and Sherlock’s eyes bore into him. “You don’t understand.”

“I understand enough. You’re a poor loser.”

Sherlock’s nostrils flared and John’s mouth settled into a knowing smile. Sherlock’s expression cleared a moment later though, a smirk settling across his face.

“And what sort of winner are you, John? You’re up here instead of down there enjoying the party in your honour.” Sherlock stalked closer. “Have you realised that you don’t fit in this world anymore? That you’re past it, even if you do have enough luck to win the odd race?”

“I should punch you in the face,” John gritted out.

Sherlock’s eyes flashed with amusement, and something else, and John grabbed him by the collar and drew him in to a violent kiss. Sherlock let out a choked noise and grabbed John by the back of his head, almost bending him over as he pressed in close. John growled low in his throat and tore himself away, his hands tugging at Sherlock’s t-shirt.

“You’re so fucking predictable,” he got out, pulling the garment over Sherlock’s head.

“No, I’m not,” Sherlock countered, shoving his hand down the front of John’s trousers. “That’s why you enjoy it so much.”

“Fuck you,” John bit out, dragging Sherlock back into a kiss, tongues sliding together obscenely as John’s free hand grabbed at his arse.

“If you like,” Sherlock got out, squeezing John’s cock through his boxers.

John groaned and shoved him back. “Get your clothes off now.”

Sherlock smirked, but he hurried to comply even as John pulled his top over his head. Sherlock was already on the bed when John looked up again, legs spread, one hand slowly pumping his cock. John’s mouth went dry and he kicked his way out of his trousers and boxers.

Sherlock leaned over to the bedside table, drawing out lube and a condom and setting them down on the bed as John climbed onto the bed between his legs. Sherlock met his gaze straight on. “Just so there’s no ambiguity.”

“Fuck.”

“You’re getting the idea,” Sherlock murmured, lips curling.

John leaned over him, arms braced on either side as he lowered his mouth to Sherlock’s ear. “I’m going to fuck you so hard you’ll see stars.”

“Get on with it then,” Sherlock returned, his hand wrapping around John’s cock. 

John cupped a hand around Sherlock’s jaw and guided him into a messy kiss, before letting his free hand trail down Sherlock’s side. Sherlock’s breath caught, and he arched into the touch. John could feel him scrambling at his side, and then cool liquid was being smeared across John’s fingers. John hummed, licking into Sherlock’s mouth as he let his lube-covered fingers trail down between his legs, circling his hole with teasing touches until Sherlock groaned at him.

He slid one finger home easily, accompanied by a whine from Sherlock, and he broke their kiss to suck a mark over Sherlock’s collarbone. Sherlock’s own lube-smeared hand passed over John’s cock and John had to close his eyes at the sensation.

“You’re not going to come already, are you?” Sherlock got out as John gasped. “I thought you had more stamina than that.”

“Shut up.”

John shoved himself up onto his knees, his thumb caressing Sherlock’s lower lip as he pressed a second finger inside along the first. Sherlock wriggled, throwing his hands above his head and grasping the headboard for leverage.

“I could finger-fuck you all night.”

Sherlock’s eyes darkened but he seemed past the point of snark, his cock bobbing against his stomach as he pushed himself down on John’s fingers. John reached over with his free hand and retrieved the condom, but Sherlock took it from him, sliding it on with steady movements.

“Hurry up.”

John caught Sherlock’s hands and pushed him backwards, pinning him to the bed as he rubbed their cocks together in a leisurely tease.

“John.”

John grinned and lowered one hand to his cock as Sherlock slung a leg over his hip, urging him in as John lined them up and sank home in one quick movement. They both let out a gust of breath.

“Oh god,” John breathed, bowing his head.

“Please don’t get all emotional on me.” 

John gave a kick of the hips in an attempt to shut him up, returning his hands to Sherlock’s wrists, their faces inches away. “You are such a dick.”

He thrust again and Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered, but he didn’t take his eyes from John.

“Such an arrogant, condescending bastard.”

“Say this to all the girls, do you?” Sherlock asked, his breath hitching as John thrust again.

“Do you ever shut up?”

“Fuck me harder and I might.”

John let out a groan, and shoved his hips forward, one hand going to Sherlock’s thigh and pressing it back to give him more room to move. He sat back on his heels, thrusting hard, but he still couldn’t get the grip he wanted.

“On your knees.”

Sherlock’s eyes darkened impossibly and when John pulled back, he quickly turned over, propping himself up on hands and knees. John traced a hand down his back, and lined them up once more, sliding home. Sherlock let out a gasp and John smiled, reaching up to grab the hair at his nape.

“Much better,” John said, setting up a steady rhythm, his cock sliding freely, his sac bouncing against Sherlock’s thighs. Sherlock reached out for the headboard once more, and pushed back with John’s next thrust and they both moaned.

“John.”

“Yes. Fuck.”

Sherlock pushed back and John pounded into him, both of them breathing heavily, sweat gathering on overheated skin. Sherlock reached down to take his cock in hand and John thrust even harder.

“Yes, come on. Come on.”

Sherlock arched his back and John’s fingers dug into his hips. He was so close. Sherlock let out a desperate whine and jerked and John lost all rhythm as Sherlock tightened around him. He groaned as his orgasm swept over him and drove himself deep inside Sherlock.

Sherlock collapsed to the bed, John following with a bit more care, slipping free and dropping onto his back. He passed a hand over his forehead, pushing back sweat-slick hair. Sherlock shifted, turning his head to face John.

“Congratulations, by the way.”

“Thank you,” John got out in surprise. 

“You deserved to win. This time.”

John laughed. “Prick.”

He sat up, trying to locate his clothes.

“You can stay here, if you like.”

John gave him a surprised look, and Sherlock rolled his eyes, turning his head away once more. “Or not, if you like. I really couldn’t care less.”

John let out a huff of laughter before settling back down again. “Twat.”

“Go to sleep.”

It didn’t take long for John to do so, even with the unfamiliar feeling of someone else next to him for the first time in months.


	15. Chapter 15

_He was flying, speeding through the corners, no-one in front and no-one behind. The track was laid out in his mind's eye, a perfect mixture of fast straights and stomach-dropping bends. He let out a laugh of delight, hitting the accelerator hard on the next straight._

_It was only as he crossed the start line that the blue sky that had been shining down on him started to morph from darker blue to grey to almost black. At the third corner the rain came, and the track began to transform into something awfully familiar._

_He knew what was coming. Just up ahead was the corner where he'd crashed._

_He slammed his foot down on the brake, but there was no response. He tried to jerk the steering wheel to one side, to prevent the inevitable, but it would not budge._

_Eyes wide, he could do nothing as the car rounded the bend and everything seemed to slow down as he collided with the barrier, pain shooting through his leg and shoulder._

John jolted awake, panic seizing him even as the dream faded away. He kicked away the covers and sat on the edge of the bed, hunched over and struggling to draw breath as tears prickled at the edge of his eyes. 

"John."

He startled, having forgotten he was not alone. "I'm fine," he wheezed, hoping Sherlock would let him be.

"You're having a panic attack."

John made a choked noise and didn't bother answering, too busy trying to take deep breaths as his chest felt like it was crushing him. 

"John, breathe."

A hand settled on his back, a solid weight that made the last vestiges of the dream disappear. John closed his eyes, taking a deep breath in and letting it out again. Even through the burning of his lungs, he could feel his hands trembling, and he clenched them into fists. He let out a desperate noise and pressed a fist to his mouth, embarrassed. 

The bed shifted and two long legs settled either side of him as a hand clasped his and drew it away from his mouth. 

"Breathe," Sherlock repeated in a low, soothing rumble. 

John sagged slightly against Sherlock's chest, hating his body for betraying him like this. The tightness in his chest was finally starting to ease, but the trembling seemed to get worse, spreading through his body from his hands. Long fingers threaded through his and drew his hands to his chest in a loose embrace. 

The feeling of being trapped should have made him worse, should have brought back all the anguish of being trapped in a carbon fibre cockpit, but instead he felt his body finally relaxing, tension seeping from him. 

For some minutes past the end of his panic attack, they sat in silence, Sherlock's breath brushing over the back of John's neck. 

"Post-traumatic stress," Sherlock finally said. 

"Apparently so," John got out.

Sherlock hummed but said nothing else, his lips skimming over John's neck. Sherlock's fingers unwound from John's before trailing up to his throat in a gentle caress. It felt more intimate than anything they'd shared, and John let out a shaky breath. Sherlock cupped his jaw and guided him round into a kiss.

It was a soft brush of lips, no more, but it was enough to make his heart race. He moaned into the kiss and felt Sherlock's lips curl into a smile. Sherlock drew back and pressed his mouth to John's shoulder. 

"If you're trying to distract me, it's working."

Sherlock let out a huff of laughter, flicking his tongue over John's skin. "You're easily distracted."

"You're very distracting," John countered, gasping as Sherlock sucked on the skin at the dip between neck and shoulder. His eyes fluttered closed, but he knew there was something wrong - he'd usually be getting hard by now, but his dick hung limp between his legs. 

"What's wrong?"

He didn't even realise he had tensed up. He gave a slightly awkward laugh, running a hand over his face.

"I'm sorry. It's really not you, I promise you that."

He could practically feel Sherlock's eyes boring into the side of his face, but then the tension seemed to evaporate. 

"You should get some more sleep," Sherlock said, drawing his legs back. It sounded almost like a dismissal, but when John finally found the courage to turn his head, Sherlock was settling on his pillow, watching John expectantly. 

John lay down beside him, tucking one hand under the pillow. Sherlock was already closing his eyes and John let out a discreet sigh of relief. 

"Sleep, John."

"Goodnight. Again."

Sherlock's lips curved into a smile. "Goodnight. Again."

*

Bright sunshine pouring into the room through the flimsy curtains was what finally woke John. He groaned and rolled over, blinking awake. He stretched, arms wide, and turned in surprise when he found the bed next to him empty. 

"Good morning."

John pushed himself up onto his elbows to regard Sherlock, who sat across the room in a loose silk dressing gown, hair damp as he tapped away at a laptop. 

"Morning," John finally replied, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. "What time is it?"

"Almost eleven."

John groaned. "Haven't we got a thing at one?"

"Celebratory lunch with the sponsors, yes."

"I suppose I should get moving then."

Sherlock hummed, apparently absorbed in whatever it was he was doing on the laptop. John dug his clothes out from their various hiding places, before pulling them on with a grimace. He couldn't wait to get back to his room and to a shower and clean clothes. 

Finally dressed, he stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, shifting from foot to foot. Sherlock's focus remained glued to his laptop, a striking distance after the tenderness of the twilight hours. 

"Well, I'll be off then."

Sherlock finally raised his head. "I'll see you in a few hours," Sherlock reminded him.

"Of course, yes."

When it looked like Sherlock wasn't going to move, John cleared his throat and turned towards the door. "Right then."

"John."

John stopped, turning back to find Sherlock almost in front of him, having crossed the room with stealthy speed. Without a word, Sherlock took John's face in his hands and kissed him. Moaning softly, John's hands twisted in the smooth fabric of Sherlock's dressing gown. 

They parted, slightly breathless, and John smiled. 

"See you later."

Sherlock stepped away and John turned to the door, hesitating for just a moment before pulling the door open. 

"Oh!"

Molly stood just the other side of the door, coffee in one hand, other hand clearly raised to knock on the door. Her eyes flew over them both, and John knew exactly what she was seeing - Sherlock's gaping dressing gown and bare chest, John's rumpled clothes and messy hair. They told an eloquent story to any onlooker.

Clearing his throat, John stepped past Molly.

"Hi, Molly," he got out.

"H-hi."

"Bye, Sherlock."

"Goodbye, John," Sherlock returned, something like amusement warming his tone. John dared a final glance at him, before giving a dazed Molly a weak smile and a nod, and striding away down the corridor to the safety of his own room.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry it's taken this long to update - RL is a bitch, and I was working on my entry for the Sherlock Remix Challenge. I hope to get the next update along sooner.

John should have known better than to think he could avoid Molly for long. He felt her eyes on him more than once over lunch, but they were far enough apart he didn't have to indulge in any vaguely uncomfortable small talk. Sherlock, meanwhile, was sat next to John and although they said little to each other, John was very aware of his presence. It was affecting him more than usual, and when Sherlock's knee pressed against his, he felt heat bloom across his cheeks. Sherlock gave him a sidelong smirk, before continuing his conversation with one of the sponsors' local directors. When John looked around, he saw Molly watching them intently. John quickly ducked his head, feigning absorption in his lunch.

When lunch was finally over, the group retired to the lounge with drinks, everyone still basking in the glory of two podium spots. John stood looking out the window, admiring the city landscape, when someone came to stand beside him. He knew without looking that it was Molly. He turned his head slowly and gave her a hesitant smile.

"Hi, Molly."

She pursed her lips, looking unusually stern. "Hi."

John searched hopelessly for some topic of conversation that did not involve her boss and his - whatever he was. "Did you enjoy lunch?"

"Yes. Thank you."

He could see Molly was twitching, wanting to talk, and he looked around cautiously, before leaning in a bit closer and lowering his voice.

"Look, Molly, I know it might have been a shock to you-"

"Not really."

"I- what do you mean 'not really'?"

Molly flushed for a moment, caught, but then shook her head. "It doesn't matter. Look, I just wanted to tell you... Don't hurt him."

John gave a choked laugh. Was Molly really about to give him the 'hurt him and I hurt you' speech?

"Molly, Sherlock's a grown man. Anyway, he was the one who pursued this, the one who's making all the rules. And rule number one is that this is just, I don't know, a bit of fun."

John shifted uncomfortably, running a hand over the back of his neck. Last night had seemed different, but he wasn't about to admit that to Molly. He glanced around and happened to catch sight of Sherlock talking with Mike. Sherlock looked up and held his gaze for a long, electric moment, before turning his attention to Mike again.

"Sherlock doesn't do casual relationships."

"Could've fooled me," John said, turning back to Molly. 

"Yes," Molly murmured in a serious tone. "He could, couldn't he?"

John frowned, looking over at Sherlock.

"Just... be careful enough for both of you," Molly said, a hand on John's arm drawing his gaze to hers. "I don't want to see either of you get hurt."

Her expression softened and she smiled. "You look happy again, though, that's good. I'm glad you found someone after everything that happened with Sarah."

"It's really not like that," he protested.

"Isn't it?" she asked, giving him a piercing look. "Anyway, I really have to dash. Sherlock will kill me if I don't pick up his suits from the dry cleaner's."

"Molly, just one thing. Err... this is a little awkward, but... If you could keep this to yourself."

She placed a hand on his arm. "I will. See you later, John."

She left and John's gaze drifted across the room to Sherlock again, but Sherlock had moved. In fact, John quickly spotted him crossing the room towards John.

Sherlock joined him, looking out over the city.

"What did Molly have to say for herself?"

John shifted, wondering what it was safe to say. "What did she say to you this morning?" he asked instead.

Sherlock gave him a long look. "She told me not to hurt you," he finally said, with a slight frown. 

John huffed out a laugh. "Likewise."

Sherlock was silent for a long pause, watching him closely. "Except we're neither of us interested in anything that could lead to someone getting hurt. Are we?"

John wasn't sure if he was just imagining the genuine question in Sherlock's words. 

"We agreed, didn't we?" he countered.

"We did." There was a moment's pause. "The racing is the important thing."

"Of course."

"Good."

They both looked out at the cityscape again.

"Any plans for your time off before the next race?" John asked, hoping to steer the conversation back to safer territory.

Sherlock pursed his lips in displeasure. "I have to pay a visit to my family."

"And that's bad because..."

"Because my mother is a determined matchmaker and will undoubtedly have invited one of Monte Carlo's brightest stars to lunch for my benefit."

John smiled, but he couldn't help fixating on one part of Sherlock's sentence. "Your family lives in Monte Carlo?"

"Most of the year, yes, although they have a house in England too."

John shifted, feeling awkward even as he spoke. "It's funny, actually, I'm heading back to Monaco myself. Maybe we could... have dinner, or something."

Sherlock gave him a piercing look. "John, I don't date."

"No, I wasn't... It's fine, I was only joking. I'm sure we'll both be far too busy anyway."

"John-"

"No, really, ignore me." John forced a smile. "I suppose this is 'goodbye' until Bahrain then."

Sherlock regarded him for a long moment, before nodding his head slightly. "Goodbye, then."

John moved away before Sherlock could, pasting on a smile as he joined a group of partygoers. 

*

He was an absolute idiot. It'd been three days since he'd seen Sherlock and - God help him - he missed him. Monaco was gorgeous even in early April, the whole city bathed in sunshine and filled with beautiful people. It was some people's idea of heaven, and yet John found himself distracted and bored.

"Are you even listening to me?"

John turned guiltily back to his sister, Harry, who had joined him (or rather, invited herself) for the week. 

"Sorry, Harry."

"What's up with you?" she said, looking at him over the top of her sunglasses.

"Nothing," he said quickly. Harry narrowed her eyes at him.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were mooning over someone."

John looked out to sea, incredibly thankful for his dark glasses. "Good job you know better."

He could feel Harry watching him intently, but he refused to give in. This was something he had no intention of sharing with his sister.

"Well, well, well," Harry suddenly said, looking across the pool. "Look who it is."

John glanced over, expecting some minor celebrity or other. 

"She's got fat," Harry commented, and that was when John spotted her - Sarah. She was just sitting down at a table with her footballer boyfriend, wearing loose clothes that did little to hide the curve of her stomach.

"She's pregnant, Harry," he said woodenly. 

John couldn't tear his eyes off her. She looked happy, laughing lightly as her companion rested an arm around her back. 

"Shall we go?" Harry asked.

"No, it's fine." John still couldn't drag his gaze away. 

Just then, Sarah glanced over and spotted him, going still just for a second. She gave him a weak smile, then turned away again. John's stomach dropped into his shoes and he finally turned back to his sister, who was watching him with unusual tenderness.

"Another drink?"

"Yes."

Harry went off to the bar, and John remained, forcing himself to keep his eyes front. He couldn't wait to get back to his flat, but had too much pride to leave straight away.

They finally headed home some time later and John retired to his room, leaving Harry to entertain herself. He lay on his bed, rubbing his hands over his face. His feelings for Sarah had long since faded, but seeing her in the flesh brought it all back. He sighed, closing his eyes. 

His phone vibrated, startling him out of his daze. He picked it up from the bedside table, and opened the text from an unknown number.

**Lunch with family incredibly dull. Blind date even duller. SH**

John smiled, and before he could even type a response another message came through. 

**I was foolish to reject your invitation. It would have been much more preferable.**

John typed out a response: **You can make it up to me some other time.**

**Where do you live? I can make it up now.**

John laughed. **My sister's staying with me.**

There was a long pause before Sherlock replied. 

**Such a shame.**

Attached to the message was a picture and when John opened it, he let out a groan: Sherlock had taken a picture of himself, naked. John's cock twitched with interest and he palmed himself as he wrote a reply.

**God, you look amazing.**

Sherlock's response was a close-up shot of his own cock, long fingers wrapped around it loosely. John pressed the heel of his hand against his trousers, rocking slightly, a hundred fantasies flashing through his mind. He was desperate to hear Sherlock's voice and he pressed the call button on his phone.

"John." Sherlock's voice was deep and husky.

"Tell me what you're doing right now."

"I'm stroking my cock."

John groaned. "God. I want to taste you. I want to suck you right down."

Sherlock made a low appreciative rumble of noise that went straight to John's cock. John tore at his zip, shoving his trousers down, quickly followed by his boxers. 

"Are you touching yourself yet?" Sherlock asked, his voice rich with amusement.

"Working on it." John wrapped his free hand around his cock and let out a moan. "I wish you were here."

"Tell me what you'd do if I were."

John settled back against his pillows, stroking his cock. "I'd strip you naked and spread you out on the bed. Maybe I'd even tie you down."

"Mmm. Interesting."

"Then I'd put my mouth all over."

"All over?" Sherlock echoed in a rasp.

"Mmm. Every inch of you, from your toes to your head and everywhere in between. Then I'd work my way between your legs and eat you out until you begged."

Sherlock growled and John squeezed the base of his cock, desperately trying to regain control. 

"Then what?" Sherlock got out, his voice wrecked. In the background, John could clearly hear the slap of skin against skin, and his mouth went dry with the image of Sherlock stretched out naked and pulling at his own cock. 

"Then I'd spread your legs wide and fuck you hard."

"John."

"Fuck, Sherlock," John gasped, sensation building in his balls as he pulled at his cock.

"Yes. Come on, John."

"Oh God." John threw his head back, and came with a gasp, come spurting over his shirt.

Sherlock let out a strangled moan down the phone, and everything went quiet but for the sound of his rasping breaths. 

"Still there?" John asked once he'd got his breath back.

"Yes." There was a pause then Sherlock spoke up again. "Meet me outside the Cafe de Paris tomorrow at eight."

John grinned. "I'll be there."

"Good night, John."

"Good night."


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I am really sorry for the delay in updating. Those of you who write will understand how painful it is when every sentence is like drawing blood from a stone. If you're still reading, thank you, and I will try to get another update a bit sooner this time.

In his eagerness, John had turned up a good ten minutes early, and was now trying to look nonchalant as he lingered by the entrance to the Cafe de Paris. Luckily the residents of Monaco were fairly immune to celebrity faces and no-one but a couple of tourists gave him more than a second glance as he waited. He checked his watch again - still five minutes to go.

He shifted from foot to foot, hands clasped behind his back, and looked up and down the street. He stopped when he spotted a head of dark curls just across the road. Sherlock blended in well with the crowd in light trousers and a pale shirt, sunglasses covering his eyes, and yet at the same time he stood out a million miles. There was something about the way he moved, a confident grace that made those around him fade into the background. 

Although Sherlock's sunglasses hid his eyes, John could feel the moment that razor-sharp gaze settled on him. His skin buzzed with anticipation and he stood up a little straighter as Sherlock crossed the road, moving towards him. John fought to keep the grin from his face, trying for nonchalance.

Sherlock finally reached him, slipping his sunglasses off and tucking them in his pocket. 

"John."

"Hi," John got out, feeling somewhat awkward.

"Shall we?" Sherlock said, gesturing to the door. 

"Sure."

They headed inside, where it was cooler and quieter. A waiter made his way over to them, smiling warmly.

"Bonjour, Monsieur Holmes," the man said, shaking Sherlock's hand. "Votre table est prête."

"Merci, Philippe."

John gave a little start at the rumble of French spoken in Sherlock's deep voice, and Sherlock gave him a knowing look as Philippe led them towards a table tucked right into a far corner. Philippe presented them with a menu each, then disappeared into the kitchen. 

"You come here often?" John asked, then cringed when he realised how it sounded.

"Now and then, when I'm in town," Sherlock replied with amusement, settling back in his chair. "They do a very good duck a l'orange."

John nodded, scanning the menu. "And you speak French. That's, err, impressive."

"My family have lived here for most of the year all of my life. It was inevitable." Sherlock leaned forward, dropping his voice. "I'll show you some more later, if you like."

John flushed, but he was saved by the return of Philippe, who set a jug of water on the table before looking expectantly at Sherlock. Sherlock rattled off an order in perfect French, further ruining John's composure, and Philippe disappeared once more. 

"You could have ordered anything," John said, once he'd found his voice. "And I wouldn't have the slightest idea."

"Trust me," Sherlock said, smiling as he poured them both a glass of water. 

John raised an eyebrow, but took the glass Sherlock proffered.

*

"What made you get into racing then?" John asked, picking through a duck a l'orange that was, just as Sherlock had said, very good.

Sherlock swallowed, smoothing a napkin over his mouth before he spoke.

"A family friend, actually."

"Oh right?"

"We used to go and watch him race. And he used to talk to us about racing. He's always been very passionate about his sport."

"Who is he?" John asked, reaching for his drink and taking a sip.

"Alain Prost."

John almost choked on his mouthful of wine. "Your parents are friends with Alain Prost?" He shook his head in disbelief. "Well, I'm not surprised you got into racing. And I'm not surprised you drive the way you do."

"What way is that?"

"I think I've heard it described as technical perfection."

Sherlock's lips curved into a faint smile. "So you admit I'm a good driver?"

"You know you're a good driver." 

Sherlock pursed his lips, training his gaze on John. "What about you, John? Do you know you're a good driver?"

"Well, a certain someone told me I was a bit past it not so long ago."

Sherlock sat back. "It wasn't meant as an insult."

"Wasn't it?" John scoffed.

"No," Sherlock said seriously. "You clearly needed a push in the right direction."

John raised his eyebrows. 

"You were so eager to prove me wrong you went out and pushed yourself harder than ever."

John couldn't help but huff out a laugh. "So what you're telling me is that you were winding me up to help me?"

"I had other motives too," Sherlock allowed, his eyes heavy-lidded and sultry as they strayed to John's mouth. 

"You know, there are easier ways to do these things. More flies with honey and all that."

"It worked, didn't it?" 

John shook his head slightly and took another drink to give him time to compose himself. He wasn't entirely sure Sherlock's arrogance had pushed him to drive better, but it had certainly done a good job of bringing him to the brink of infatuation. 

"So," he said once he'd lowered his glass once more, "You're saying you are actually capable of not being an arse?"

"I think you prefer it when I'm being an arse."

"Why's that?"

"Trust issues."

John blinked at the sudden turn in the conversation. Sherlock just continued to watch him, pale eyes fixed on John with an unsettling focus. John floundered for a moment longer before finally finding his voice. 

"Well, it's a good job this is just a casual thing then, isn't it?" he commented with forced lightness. 

There was a momentary flicker of something in Sherlock's expression, but then he appeared to shrug it away. "Are you finished?"

John set his cutlery down. "Yeah. What do you recommend for dessert?"

"Nothing you'll find on the menu," Sherlock rumbled in a tone that went straight to John's cock. 

"Right. Good. Yes."

Sherlock's expression showed brief amusement as he got to his feet.

"Wait, where are you going? We need to pay."

"I have a tab, it's fine."

John got clumsily to his feet, and followed as Sherlock led the way out.

"Au revoir, Monsieur Holmes," Philippe called out.

"Au revoir."

Sherlock held open the door and waved for John to go ahead, before following him out into the street. 

"My flat isn't far from here," Sherlock said, and set off to the right with John hurrying to catch up.

*

It was only a short walk, but it felt like an eternity as John tried to calm the pounding of his heart in his chest and the steady flow of blood southward. Sherlock's fingers brushed his as they walked and it felt like torture. They finally reached an old building not far from the seafront and Sherlock led them up four flights of stairs to the very top, before unlocking a door and waving John inside. 

John had just a glimpse of a messy living room before Sherlock pounced, crowding him against the wall next to the door and locking their mouths together. John grabbed at his shirt, fumbling to get his hands on the warm skin underneath as Sherlock cupped John's head in his large hands and deepened their kiss, sliding his tongue sensuously over John's.

They parted and Sherlock dropped his mouth to John's neck, lightly scraping his teeth over John's skin.

"Mon Dieu, tu me rends fou."

John's eyelids fluttered, but then he recovered himself and quickly swapped their positions, one hand hooked around Sherlock's neck and the other shamelessly palming his arse. He pressed his lips to the underside of Sherlock's jaw.

"You are banned from speaking French."

Sherlock laughed softly, his Adam's apple bobbing under John's lips. 

"In fact, you're banned from speaking full-stop. Your voice is obscene."

Sherlock laughed again, hands clenching around John's hips. "I know a few things guaranteed to stop me talking."

"Good."

John drew back and Sherlock straightened, his hands going to the buttons of his shirt and making quick work of them as John watched on with growing hunger. 

"Let me show you the bedroom."

Sherlock dropped his shirt to the floor and made his way across the room towards a door on the far side. He looked back over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow, and John hurried after him, kicking his shoes off as he went. 

*

John sighed with satisfaction, looking out at the brightly-lit marina that dominated the view from Sherlock's bedroom. He made himself more comfortable against the pillows, truly relaxed for the first time in ages. 

Sherlock emerged from the bathroom, looking dishevelled and gorgeous as he sauntered, naked, back to the bed and stretched out next to John.

"Amazing view."

Sherlock hummed lazily and John turned to look at him, smiling. 

"Haven't worn you out already, have I?"

Sherlock rolled onto his side. "You certainly shut me up for a while."

John smiled warmly, reaching out to trail a hand down Sherlock's side. He'd certainly tried his best as he'd covered Sherlock's mouth with his own and fucked him into the mattress. 

Sherlock shifted closer, resting his head next to John's shoulder. It was the closest he suspected Sherlock would ever get to cuddling, and it threw him for a moment.

"You never said earlier - what got you into racing?" Sherlock asked. 

John stilled. "My dad. He took me carting at the age of five." He swallowed hard, emotion threatening to overwhelm him. 

Sherlock lifted his head slightly, eyes searching John's. "What happened?"

"He died last year, just a few weeks before I had my crash."

"I'm sorry."

"It's fine."

Thankfully, Sherlock fell silent after that and John set about forcing the painful memory from his mind. It was easier to do when Sherlock nudged his head against John's shoulder and John moved without thinking, letting Sherlock settle in the crook of his arm. Sherlock said nothing and John stared at the ceiling, warm and content, but cursing himself internally - he was way past infatuation already, and he was going to suffer for it sooner and later. 

"I should leave you to sleep," he suggested hesitantly, not really wanting to go.

"Don't be dull. Just... stop thinking and go to sleep."

"Alright," he said with amusement. 

Silence descended and within minutes, Sherlock was sleeping, his breath tickling John's chest. John sighed and pressed his mouth against Sherlock's hairline, before closing his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Votre table est prete = your table is ready
> 
> Mon Dieu, tu me rends fou = my god, you drive me crazy ;-)


	18. Chapter 18

_Welcome to the 2014 Bahrain Grand Prix, where Watson and Holmes have once again closed out the front row, this time with Holmes just three tenths ahead in qualifying._

_A brilliant performance from Holmes yesterday, and I'm here with Team Principal Greg Lestrade to talk about their plans for the race. Greg, well done, you're dominating the front row again. I imagine you'll be looking to convert that to another one-two._

_Of course, yeah. We've got a good car and two very good drivers, so we're definitely going to give it our best shot._

_Let's talk about your drivers. We've already seen them come together, and there have been a few near misses to boot - how do you manage the situation when you've got two drivers fighting to win?_

_John and Sherlock are both very good at what they do, and I'd hope after Australia they've learnt to keep a safe distance._

_You'd hope so. But you're letting them race? No team orders?_

_No. I don't go in for that sort of thing. I think they've both got it in them to win, and the team will do everything it can to support them._

_Greg, thanks, I'll let you get back to the pre-race prep now. Martin, back to you._

*

John went for a last bathroom break, and a brief respite from the searing sun, and just as he was coming out of the bathroom, he collided with a solid form. A strong hand grabbed him by the arm and as John steadied himself on a firm chest, he looked up and smiled.

"Fancy seeing you here."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, releasing John's arm but not moving away.

"Yes, fancy that," Sherlock drawled, but there was warmth in his eyes.

Remembering the last time he had tried to talk to Sherlock before the race, and the rebuff he had received, John tried to school his face into a more impassive expression.

"Ready to race?"

"Always."

"Keep an eye on your mirrors," John teased lightly.

"I will. I have no doubt I'll have quite a race on my hands."

"You can bet on it."

For a moment, the air crackled with tension and John could have sworn he saw Sherlock's hands twitch, as if to reach for him, but then Sherlock cleared his throat and stepped around him.

"Good luck, John."

"And you."

Sherlock disappeared into the bathroom and John took a few seconds to compose himself before heading back outside to the overwhelming, exhilarating noise of the grid.

*

_And they're away! Holmes gets a very good start, pulling away from the pack, but his teammate is not far behind. And, oh, what's that - the defending champion has spun off already. Sebastian Vettel is having a nightmare of a season._

_He started in fifth after a disappointing Q3, and now he's dropped back to twelfth. Oh dear._

_Out in front, though, Holmes is absolutely flying._

_I know we've talked about it before but there's a precision to Holmes' driving that you just don't see that much today._

_You're right. It's as if he's mathematically calculated the quickest way round this track -_

_He probably has!_

_He probably has, yeah. The way he takes every corner with such neatness, hitting the apex almost every time._

_He may be one of the new boys here, but he's already showing great promise and I wouldn't be surprised if we see him on top of the podium today._

*

John was sweating and breathing heavily in the cramped cockpit of his car, but his blood was soaring. He gained a few metres on Sherlock on the straight, only to lose him again through the corners, but he couldn't care less. There were only a few more laps to go, and he was pushing as hard as he could, but he knew Sherlock was probably going to win, barring any nasty late surprises.

He was surprised how little it bothered him that Sherlock was about to beat him - and actually, part of him was excited for Sherlock, glad that he would get to experience the thrill of winning a race. God, he was an idiot for Sherlock Holmes.

They passed the start/finish line and began the last lap, Sherlock still just in front. John missed the apex on turn three, falling a bit further behind, and it was this vantage point that gave him a good view of the rear of Sherlock's car as it started to spew smoke.

"Smoke!" he called out over the radio, "Something's smoking on Sherlock's car."

Sherlock, seemingly oblivious, carried on at full speed, the smoke cloud behind him growing thicker and thicker until John had to pull back to be free of it. 

"Is he stopping?" John asked over the radio.

There was a pause, and then Mike answered: "No."

_Oh, you idiot_ , John thought to himself as he carefully wound his way through the track, Sherlock's path marked before him by smoke.

He crossed the line, and the smoke finally cleared to show Sherlock hurrying away from his car, which he'd ditched by the pit wall. Smoke was now billowing from it as marshals rushed onto the track with fire extinguishers. Sherlock jumped through a gap in the pit wall and disappeared as John continued along the home straight at a leisurely pace. The fact that he had just won second place barely registered over a cocktail of concern and anger. 

*

The ceremony was more subdued than usual and Sherlock and Lestrade were whisked away by the stewards as soon as it was over, the press conference stilted without the presence of the winner. Afterwards, John let himself be steered towards the VIP section of the bar, where champagne was already flowing and the team were celebrating. John stood to one side, unable to shake the bad feeling he had deep in his gut.

Lestrade appeared, alone, about half an hour later with a grim look on his face. 

"Congratulations," he said in a strained voice as he approached John, "You've been bumped up to first."

"What?!"

"Sherlock's been disqualified for unsafe driving."

"Can they do that?"

"If he endangers every other driver on the track they can." Greg scrubbed a hand through his hair. "Christ, I need a drink."

He wandered off to find one, leaving John to mull over the situation for the space of a few breaths, before he was spurred into action. He set down his glass and slipped away from the now-subdued celebrations, as Greg's news spread round the room. 

John headed for the changing rooms, only to find them empty, before heading on a whim for the pits. The pits had been deserted for now, but he found Sherlock crouched down at the end of his car, frowning at the rear end. He made no indication that he had seen John.

"Sherlock."

"I don't want to hear it," Sherlock said sharply, straightening. 

"What- I wasn't-"

"Go and celebrate," Sherlock said coldly.

John crossed his arms, refusing to budge. Sherlock looked up and rolled his eyes.

"I don't need your platitudes."

"I'm not here to give you any. You're a reckless idiot."

Sherlock looked surprised for a moment, before his expression settled into a familiar cold mask of indifference.

"Coming from you, that's really saying something."

"I'm not reckless."

Sherlock gave him a hard look. "Your crash was entirely the result of recklessness." 

John gaped in shock, anger flooding through him. "How dare you?" he hissed.

"You were driving much too fast for the conditions."

"At least I didn't put anyone else in danger."

"Except for the driver who almost crashed into you."

They stood staring at each other as silence descended, taut and crackling but nothing like before. Desire had been obliterated by pure rage and John could feel himself shaking with the effort of holding back, his nails cutting into his palm as he clenched his fists. 

Finally, Sherlock looked away, his attention turning back to the car. 

"Congratulations on your win," Sherlock said pointedly.

John opened his mouth to speak but then snapped it closed. He spun on his heel and left before he could say anything else he might regret.


	19. Chapter 19

In the two weeks between Bahrain and Shanghai, John had heard nothing from Sherlock and given they were on the same team, Sherlock had done a masterful job of avoiding him. John had started to regret his words almost as soon as he'd left the garage two weeks ago, but pride had stopped him from turning back. The same pride had prevented him from making any move to break the stalemate in the last two weeks. It couldn't have been more of a contrast to the week before Bahrain.

John sighed and scrubbed a hand across his face. He hadn't slept well the night before - too busy ruminating on his argument with Sherlock - and he wasn't exactly in the right frame of mind for qualifying. He needed to get his head in the game. He and Sherlock were leading the championship with a win and a second place each, and every single race could make the difference between winning the title or losing it all. There was too much at stake to let his rocky relationship with Sherlock ruin things - he was getting on a bit, the other drivers on the grid getting younger and younger, and this might very well be one of his last years in racing. It was also quite likely the best shot he had for a world championship.

He realised now that maybe Sherlock had been right all along - whatever happened between them off the track, the driving came first. He just wished he could look at the whole thing as objectively as Sherlock.

"Ready?" 

He looked up to find Mike watching him with a slight frown of concern.

"Yeah."

"Everything alright?"

"Fine," he said shortly, putting an end to the conversation. Mike didn't look convinced, but thankfully didn't press.

John made his way out to the garage and as he was climbing into the car, he happened to look across to where Sherlock was already in his car. He had his visor down, unapproachable and sealed off from everything. John settled in his seat and strapped himself in, giving one of the mechanics a quick thumbs-up. He just wanted to be out driving now - at least he knew what he was doing out on the track.

The timer ticked down and finally they were released to start their warm-up lap. Sherlock was just ahead of John as they queued at the end of the pit lane, waiting to practice their starts. Sherlock moved to the front, tyres squealing as he zoomed away from the line and out onto the track. John watched him go, once again replaying their argument in his head.

"John?" Mike said over the radio.

"Yes, sorry." John shook himself, forcing himself back to the task at hand.

He balanced the clutch, held it for a few seconds, then released it. The car leapt forward, a perfect start, and he peeled out of the pit lane and on to the track, hoping to get a good run before his first flying lap. 

The car was as beautifully responsive as ever, kissing the apex with minimum effort on his part. It tackled every corner with ease, and flew down the straights. At a number of bends, John just caught sight of Sherlock ahead of him on the track, but nothing was going to distract him now. He knew deep-down that this was going to be a good qualifying if he could keep it together.

He sped across the start/finish line just as Sherlock rounded the first corner and maxed the car down the straight, before braking in to turn into the long, snaking corner. 

"John, just to warn you, there's some oil on the track between turns four and five."

"Got it."

He sped round turn three, getting a great line into turn four, and that was when chaos erupted over the radio.

"Red flag, red flag. John, watch out!"

The channel remained open and he could hear shouting in the background, and as the track straightened out, he saw what had caused the commotion. Marshals waved red flags all along the track, a red haze that passed mostly unnoticed as the eye was drawn instantly to the ten foot high flames spewing from the shell of a car. There had been only one driver on the track in front of John just a few seconds before, only one driver it could be.

"Is he alright?" John barked into his radio. "Is Sherlock alright?" 

He could hear the panic in his voice, even as he pulled his car over, completely disobeying protocol as he climbed out. There was no answer over his radio. Marshals hurried over to him, trying to get him back into the car, but he ignored them, pushing them aside as he hurried towards the crash.

As he watched in growing horror, several marshals fought the blaze with fire extinguishers as another group dragged Sherlock's limp body from the cockpit. They carried him to a safe distance, laying him down gently as the medical car screeched to a halt by the side of the track.

John broke into a jog, his heart hammering in his chest, but he was held back by a group of marshals several metres from where Sherlock lay eerily still as the doctor waved over a stretcher. 

"Is he alright? Please," John called out, still restrained by the marshals. 

The doctor looked up at him, but said nothing, turning his attention quickly back to Sherlock, who seemed to be trying to move. John felt like he might sob with relief. The doctor placed a hand on Sherlock's chest, apparently warning him not to move, and they strapped him to the stretcher. They lifted him up and carried him to a waiting ambulance that John had not even seen arrived, and the doors closed behind him as John watched on helplessly.

"He's in good hands," a marshal told him, but John barely heard it as he slowly made his way back to his car. He climbed in and started the car on autopilot, before making his way back to the pits in a daze. 

"Is he alright?" he asked over his radio again.

"We don't know yet," Mike finally answered, his voice strained with worry. "They're taking him straight to hospital."

"He's awake though?"

"For now, yes."

The line went quiet and John felt sick to the very core of his being. He blinked slowly and all he could see were the flames billowing around Sherlock's car. Who knew what kind of injuries he might have suffered, despite the high-tech safety equipment and clothing? 

John finally reached the pit and got out of his car on shaky legs. Mike came over to him immediately, putting an arm around his shoulders.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm not the one who was in an accident," he snapped, concern making him restless and short-tempered. He wandered around the garage but realised he really had no idea where to go. How would he explain that he desperately needed to see Sherlock, to see if he was alright? 

"John," Mike said more firmly, taking him by the arm and drawing him over to a chair. "Sit down. Please."

John hesitated for a moment, but then sank into the chair, his energy sapped from him in an instant. He pulled off his helmet and set it on the chair next to him, running a hand through his hair.

"Qualifying won't be restarted for a while yet, so just take it easy."

John's head snapped up. He couldn't even think of driving right now, with Sherlock on his way to hospital, the seriousness of his condition unknown.

"I can't do it."

"John, I know you're probably a bit thrown, but we need you to get your head in the game."

John stared at his race engineer. "Is that all the team cares about?" he asked, a bit too loudly - a couple of mechanics who had been milling around looked over at him in surprise.

"John, we're worried about Sherlock, of course we are, but we've got a job to do."

John bit his lip. He couldn't explain, because he and Sherlock had never told anyone about their relationship - if they even had one anymore. 

"I need to get out of here," John said, getting to his feet.

"You'll be back?" Mike asked, worried.

"Yes," John said through gritted teeth, before striding out of the garage. He ducked into the changing rooms, where it was cool and quiet, and sat on a bench in a far corner. He buried his face in his hands and let out a noise of distress, before trying to school himself back to calm.

 _Sherlock will be fine_ , he told himself. _We've all had accidents that look much worse than they really are. He probably just took a knock to the head and once they check him over, he'll be back. It'll be fine._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you thought cars spontaneously setting fire might be a bit far-fetched: [Lewis Hamilton's car catches fire at Hungarian Grand Prix](http://www.telegraph.co.uk/sport/motorsport/formulaone/lewishamilton/10992727/Lewis-Hamiltons-car-catches-fire-at-Hungarian-Grand-Prix-as-qualifying-goes-up-in-smoke-for-Mercedes-driver.html)


	20. Chapter 20

"John?"

John jolted out of his daze to find Mike watching him with a slight frown.

"Ten minute warning for the restart."

John nodded shakily. "Okay. Thanks." He ran a hand over his face and let out a shaky breath.

"Everything alright?" Mike asked.

John looked up at him, and froze. He'd known Mike for five years, worked closely with him for three, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to tell Mike the truth.

"I'm fine," he said. "Just a little shaken. After seeing the accident..."

Mike nodded in understanding. "It's not nice to watch anyone get hurt."

"No."

"He's a fighter, though," Mike said with a little smile. "All you drivers are. I bet you he'll be back in a car in no time."

"Yeah," John agreed weakly, forcing a smile. "You, err, you haven't heard anything?"

"Only that he's made it to the hospital. Molly went with him and has been reporting back."

"Oh, good. That's good."

Mike gave him a long look, then nodded, apparently satisfied. "See you in a few."

"I'll be right there."

Mike slipped away and John instantly went to the locker that held his normal clothes. He popped it open and scrabbled through his belongings until he unearthed his phone. He scrolled through his contacts, and hit call when he found Molly's number. She answered after only a few rings.

"John."

"How is he?" he asked without preamble. Molly, thankfully, seemed to pick up on his urgency and got straight to the point.

"He's still being assessed, but he's awake now."

"That's good," John breathed, leaning his head back against the lockers. It wasn't quite relief that flooded through him, but he felt a little of the tension in his shoulders ebbing away.

"They think he might have broken his collarbone."

John winced. He didn't bother pointing out that this would prevent Sherlock from driving for weeks. "Shit."

"They were saying something about burns too," Molly said hesitantly. "I didn't completely hear, though."

John closed his eyes and was instantly presented with an image of the flames engulfing Sherlock's car. 

"John?"

"Sorry," he got out, jerked back to the present. He ran a hand over his face, then noted the time. "Shit, I've got to go. We're restarting in five."

"Okay."

He hesitated for a moment, before forging ahead. "Do you think..."

"Yes?"

"I need to see him," John said. "I just need to see with my own eyes that he's okay."

Molly was silent for a few beats, before answering. "I don't think it would look wrong, for you to be visiting your teammate," she said. "But if you like, I can come up with something I need you to bring for me."

John smiled. "I'll call you after qualifying and let you know."

"I'll see you later."

"Yeah. Thank you, Molly."

*

As John showered, he reflected on the qualifying session that had just finished. His crew had been quiet on the subject, but he knew his performance had been below average, and he had been lucky to scrape seventh on the grid, but even that had taken a great deal of effort. If he'd had any choice, he would have skipped the whole thing and gone straight to the hospital.

The thought stopped him in his tracks. He'd known for a few weeks that he was gone on Sherlock, but the nature of his reaction to Sherlock's accident was rather telling. He was absolutely terrified that Sherlock was badly hurt, and he'd hardly been able to think about anything since he'd watched Sherlock being carried away. Whatever this was between them, he'd long since lost the ability to be casual about it, and the accident had only thrown everything into stark relief. He wanted to be at Sherlock's side, through thick and thin - and that was a slightly unnerving thought. 

He'd thought about what a relationship with Sherlock would be like, especially after the time they'd spent together in Monaco, but he'd tried to stop himself from doing so. Sherlock had made the terms very clear, right at the beginning, and if it seemed he was starting to change his mind as well - well, John had no way of being sure. He'd also learnt the hard way not to trust people. 

He sighed and turned off the shower, reaching for his towel and scrubbing it over his face and chest. He dried himself off and dressed as quickly as he could, before heading out into the main changing room. He came to a swift halt when he found Lestrade waiting for him.

"Greg."

"John." Greg nodded in greeting, studying him with a piercing gaze. John shifted from foot to foot. 

"Come on, what's going on?" Greg asked softly.

"I know my qualifying was bad," John said, sitting on a bench opposite Greg.

"It wasn't bad, per se. But it wasn't anywhere near as good as you've been. What happened? Was there something wrong with the car?"

"No, of course not. I would have said."

"What then?"

John sighed, running a hand through his hair and staring at the floor, hoping for some sort of inspiration.

"We never really talked about your accident," Greg said after a few moments, and John looked up in surprise. "Not properly. Not even when you came back."

John studied him for a moment. Greg seemed to be under the impression that seeing Sherlock crash had reminded John of his own accident, and John leaped on the pretext. He shrugged, looking at the ground again. 

"I'm okay, really. I can drive again. That's all that matters."

He glanced up and Greg gave him a hesitant smile. "If you ever want to talk..."

"I know. Thanks." John thought for a moment, before speaking up again. "I, err, I heard Sherlock might be out of action for a while."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "We don't know anything for certain yet, but it's looking that way, yeah." Greg frowned. "We still need to figure out what happened."

"Of course... Listen, I know what it's like, going through what Sherlock's going through. So, you know, I thought I'd go and see him. See if there's anything I can do to, I don't know, make it easier for him."

"That would be really good of you." Greg examined him closely. "It's good to see you two getting on. I thought I was going to have a repeat of last year."

John laughed. "We're both out to win. You know what it's like."

"Yeah. You know the team is with you all the way." Neither of them brought up the fact that Sherlock's chances were slowly fading.

"I know. It's a good team."

They shared a smile and then Lestrade clapped a hand on his knees. "Right. I'd better get back. The engineers are looking over what's left of Sherlock's car."

"I, err, I'll pop by the hospital."

"Great. Let Sherlock know I'll be over later, if he's up to it."

"I will."

Lestrade left and John quickly gathered his things, before heading out.

*

Molly met him at the main entrance to the hospital. 

"Any change?" John asked as they got into the lift and headed for the third floor.

"He's a bit more alert. I've spoken to him, but he's a bit fuzzy with the painkillers, you know."

"His collarbone?"

"Broken," she confirmed with a grimace, before waving in the vague direction of her neck. "And there are some burns. You'll see."

The lift doors opened and Molly pointed to the left. "It's this way."

John swallowed and followed her along a brightly-lit corridor. She stopped at a little seating area and pointed further along.

"It's the second door on the right. I'll just get myself a coffee. Do you want anything?"

"No, thanks."

She gave him a small smile and headed off back down the corridor. After several deep breaths, John set off for the room. He paused at the door, which bore a whiteboard with Sherlock's name on it, and took another deep breath before pushing the door open.

John's eyes flicked over Sherlock, who lay sleeping in the bed. He took in the IV attached to his hand, the regular beeping of the heart monitor, the bandaging on his left arm and shoulder and the light bandages down the left side of his face. After this rushed inspection, his attention turned to the dark-haired man who stood studying him from the corner. 

The man looked vaguely familiar, and John realised he had seen him at FIA meetings. Of course.

"You must be Sherlock's brother," John ventured, unnerved by the unblinking gaze fixed on him.

"Must I?"

John blinked. "Who else would be hanging around his hospital bed?"

"Who indeed?" the man said, stepping forward as his eyes swept over John. "What are you doing here, Mr. Watson?"

John had the unsettling feeling that this man knew every secret he might possibly have, including the exact nature of John's relationship with his brother. 

"I just wanted to stop by and see Sherlock," he got out.

"Why?"

"Because he's hurt."

Sherlock's brother pursed his lips. 

"I just wanted to see that he was okay," John added weakly.

"You've seen him. He is not exactly 'okay'."

John swallowed. 

"Will that be all?" Sherlock's brother asked, in clear dismissal, but just at that point, Sherlock shifted. 

As John watched on, Sherlock blinked awake, heavy-lidded eyes focussing almost instantly on John. "John?"

"Hi," John got out, his mouth dry. 

Sherlock stared at him for several beats, before turning his head and scowling at his brother. "What are you doing here?"

"Checking on you, brother mine. Mummy was worried."

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand, but winced even as he did so. "Tell her I'm fine."

The elder Holmes bowed his head slightly, his eyes sliding over to John again. "Very well. I'll leave you to it, shall I?"

Sherlock said nothing, and his brother slipped out of the room. John took a step closer as Sherlock's eyes fluttered sleepily.

"Why are you here, John?" he asked tiredly. 

"I had to see you."

Sherlock regarded him with a weary expression. "Well, you've seen me. I'm all in one piece, more or less."

John frowned at Sherlock's somewhat cold tone.

"I was worried about you."

"That's very kind, but you forget - I'm a reckless idiot. This sort of thing was bound to happen." The deliberate echo of their argument made John clench his fists in frustration. 

"I'm sorry I said that," John said. "Sherlock, I, God - when I saw you..."

Sherlock's expression was unreadable, emotionless, as John trailed off helplessly. He didn't know what he'd expected, coming here, but it wasn't this. He knew Sherlock was in pain, remembered well the feeling of hopelessness when he'd woken up in a hospital bed after his crash, and he was desperate to get through to him.

"Sherlock, look..." He took another step forward, reaching out to wrap his hand around the bed's rail.

"I'm a little tired," Sherlock said, turning his head away as much as he could with the bandages on his face and neck. 

John stared at him for a long time, then let out a little sigh. "Alright. Just... you know where I am if you need me."

"Why would I need you?" Sherlock murmured.

"No idea," John said under his breath before turning away.

"Good luck for tomorrow," Sherlock called as he got to the door.

John said nothing as he threw the door open and left, his heart sinking in his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Artistic license very much in play here. F1 is a very safe sport, but it wouldn't be as fun if Sherlock got to walk away unhurt :-)


	21. Chapter 21

_John Watson crosses the line to take second in Shanghai. What an amazing performance, working his way up from seventh._

_That's easily the best driving we've seen from Watson all season._

_He was like a man possessed._

_And the team will be pleased with that result after their stand-in driver, Thompson, only managed eighteenth._

_They'll need Sherlock Holmes back as soon as possible to get a good shot at the constructors' trophy, but for now the team will be flying high as John Watson adds to his championship lead._

*

"John!"

John stopped just outside the door to his room, swaying a little on his feet. He might have celebrated a bit too vigorously, and was just starting to regret it as his stomach quivered. He turned, blinking slowly, as Molly hurried up to him.

"Congratulations," Molly said brightly as she reached him.

"Thanksh." He cleared his throat and tried again. "Thank you."

Molly gave him an odd look but then stepped closer, quickly glancing around to make sure no-one was nearby.

"I thought you might want to know how Sherlock's getting on. He seems a lot-"

"Leave it," he said sharply.

Molly recoiled in surprise.

"But, I thought..."

"I don't care what you thought," he said, regretting it instantly as Molly's face fell. "Sorry. Look, I... Sherlock's made his feelings pretty clear, alright? You don't need to be a go-between anymore."

"John, I don't know what he said, but he's hurt and -"

"Don't," he cut in, holding up a hand. "Just... don't."

"John-"

"Night, Molly." He gave her a weak smile and let himself into the dark room before she could say anything else.

He shut the door behind him and sagged against it, letting out a heavy sigh. He'd tried his best all day to push thoughts of Sherlock away, but now the memory of their argument pushed at the edges. He felt a hopelessness spreading through him. 

Despite his feelings, the last few weeks had proved that they were pretty much incompatible. Racing together and sleeping together was just a disaster waiting to happen. It would be best just to move on and forget what they had shared. He was driving better than he ever had, and Sherlock - well, he had enough on his plate. The relationship had been going nowhere anyway - he had nothing to lose.

He shuffled over to the bed and dropped onto it with a slight groan. He knew he was doing the right thing, but as he lay his head on his pillow, he wondered why his heart felt like it was breaking.

*

_Watson wins the Spanish Grand Prix!_

"Congratulations, John, you did it again."

John whooped down the radio, waving at the grandstand as he went by. His blood was singing and his heart was pounding in his chest. 

Once he'd reached parc fermé, he jumped out of the car as quickly as possible and rushed over to the waiting crowd of engineers and mechanics. He threw himself at them, laughing as they slapped him on the back and helmet. He let himself glory in their excitement.

A wave of triumph carried him through the presentations and the press conference and onto the party. He drank far too much, again, and was over-cheerful in his attempts at lightness and by the time he crawled into his lonely bed, he felt nothing but a hollow sort of emptiness settling in under his ribs.

*

_John Watson storms to yet another victory in Monaco!_

The rain was pouring down, obscuring his vision as he sped around the corner. Too late, he realised what was going to happen and just like every other time he had relived this scene, he was helpless to stop the collision with the wall. 

He bolted awake, sitting up in bed as his chest threatened to crush him. He couldn't breathe, and his vision went a little blurry. He threw his hands wide, reaching out for the sheets and twisting them in his hands. He just needed to slow his breathing. In and out, in and out. For a moment he could feel the phantom press of arms and legs around him, a strong chest against his back, but then it was gone again.

He choked out a cry and twisted his fingers in the bedding helplessly, bowing his head as he tried to slow his breathing. His throat felt like it was burning and tears prickled at the corners of his eyes. 

In and out, in and out. Breathe, breathe.

Finally, the constriction in his chest started to ease and the tears came freely. What a useless specimen he was, still haunted by nightmares after almost a year. If they had seemed to plague him even more of late, he deliberately made no connection with the events of the last few weeks. 

*

_A strong performance from John Watson in Canada as he finishes second behind Lewis Hamilton._

"John, if you would just talk to Sherlock..."

He'd known Molly was going to bring up this subject when he'd accepted her invitation for coffee, but he'd hoped to avoid it a bit longer. 

"He doesn't want to talk to me, Molly."

"He doesn't know what he wants," she returned with an exasperated sigh. "John, you know what it's like, being injured, being cut off from everything..."

"He's got you, and I know Mike has been to see him. And Lestrade."

"It's not the same," Molly protested. "He needs a real friend."

John swallowed his coffee and set down the cup. The hot drink sat heavily in his stomach. "We've never been friends," he said coldly. 

Molly went to speak but he held up a hand. 

"Enough, Molly. I have to get going, I've got an interview in twenty minutes."

He rose to his feet, pulling on his jacket.

"I never took you for a coward, John Watson."

John held her gaze, easily reading there her disappointment, then looked away.

"See you later, Molly."

"I'll pass your regards to Sherlock."

"Don't bother."

Avoiding her eyes, he left the cafe and strode away quickly, pulling his cap down low to avoid being recognised.

*

_John Watson continues his dominance in this world championship with a win in Austria. And in just two weeks we'll be heading to his home track, Silverstone, where the British crowds will be expecting big things from the British drivers. I don't know about you, Martin, but I can't wait._


	22. Chapter 22

Silverstone was only four days away when John walked through the lobby of the team's headquarters. Several people waved as he went by, or gave him encouraging smiles. The whole team - even those who worked miles away from the nearest racetrack - really was behind him, just as Greg had said. It was a great feeling.

John took the lift to the third floor and headed for Greg's office. They were meeting up to discuss some ideas for the race and he was a little early, but he was sure Greg wouldn't mind. There was very little the team's star driver could do wrong at the moment.

About twenty yards along the corridor from Greg's office, he was halted by the sound of a familiar voice, raised in anger.

"I'm ready, Lestrade."

"For God's sake, Sherlock," Greg answered in an exasperated tone. "You only just stopped using the sling two weeks ago, and I know even that was too early because the bloody team doctor told me. You're nowhere near ready."

John hovered awkwardly, knowing he had no right to hear this, but unable to turn away.

"I can drive," Sherlock snapped. John could easily picture him, biting the words out, jaw clenched.

"You know it's not like going for a nice Sunday drive with your nan. You need to build up your strength again."

"I can do that in no time," Sherlock protested. "Just get me back in a car."

There was a slight pause and John found himself edging closer.

"I can't do that," Greg finally said. "I'm sorry."

"I can always find a drive somewhere else."

"No, you can't. And don't think Big Brother can pull some strings on this."

"I need to drive," Sherlock got out, a hint of desperation in his voice.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock."

It went quiet and a moment later Sherlock stormed out of the room and almost collided with John. Sherlock froze, his eyes meeting John's, and just for a moment there was something almost vulnerable in his expression. John's heart threatened to pound right out of his chest, and when his gaze drifted to the dark red patch marring the whiteness of Sherlock's neck, he felt his stomach lurch with sympathy, regret, and longing.

He took a breath, trying to find the right words to say, and the atmosphere shifted instantly. Sherlock blinked and it was like watching a shutter come down. The whole exchange had probably only taken five seconds. Sherlock stepped around him and strode away down the corridor, and John turned to watch him go. He couldn't help noting that he carried himself a little stiffly, proving that Greg had been right to refuse him.

"Bloody hell," Greg sighed from somewhere behind him. "What am I going to do with him?"

"I'll talk to him," John said, without even turning to face Greg.

"Be my guest. If anyone can get through that thick skull of his, it might just be you."

John doubted it, but his feet were already carrying him back the way he had come. "I'll be back in a bit for our meeting," he called over his shoulder.

"I'll be here."

*

As John stepped into the lift and pressed the button for the ground floor, he felt a new resolve creep over him. He knew now why he had felt so out of sorts for the last two and a half months: John Watson wasn't a quitter, but that was exactly what he had done. Just like he had when he'd been injured, he'd retreated into himself and very almost lost something that was important to him. Just like he'd done then, he was determined to put it right, because one look at Sherlock had persuaded him just how foolish he had been.

He was in love with Sherlock. He'd acknowledged it to himself months ago, after Monaco, but he'd never stopped to think that Sherlock might feel something for him. Hadn't dared to hope, more like, but with a bit of time and distance, he felt surer than he ever had that the hurt they had caused each other was directly tied to the fact that they cared. If this relationship had really been the bit of fun they had tried to pretend it was, cruel words tossed out in anger would not have cut so deep. 

John sighed as the lift let him out at the bottom. One look at Sherlock after almost ten weeks, and John had missed him, suddenly, painfully. Missed his smile and that low, dangerous chuckle and the way he looked at John as if he could read every thought in his head. He'd been a complete idiot. Molly had told him so, but he'd been too stubborn to see it. He'd let Sherlock push him away when Sherlock needed him the most, and there was no way to take that back now. All he could do was hope that there was still a way, somehow, to fix it.

He had a vague idea where Sherlock had gone and sure enough, he could hear the faint noise of an exercise machine as he approached the gym. He approached slowly and paused in the doorway, unnoticed by Sherlock. Sherlock pushed off, long legs extending and arms pulling as he worked the rowing machine. His wince at the end of the extension was unmissable, as was the scowl he gave himself.

"You'll hurt yourself."

Sherlock startled, but settled back in his seat again, starting another long sweep of arms and legs.

"Sherlock," John started again, stepping into the room.

"Come to gloat?"

John was not going to rise to the bait. 

"You've been doing very well. I've been watching."

"Have you?"

Sherlock paused and looked at him, then turned away again. "Nothing better to do," he mumbled.

John's heart went out to him. He remembered how horrible it had been to sit at home, alone and injured, and watch other people race. He moved a little further into the room.

"You look well."

Sherlock scoffed and came to a stop, turning to look at John. After a long examination that made the hairs on the back of John's neck stand on edge, Sherlock spoke up again.

"What is this about, John? Did Lestrade send you?"

"No."

"Then why are you here?"

"Why do you think?" he returned softly.

Sherlock held his gaze for a beat, then looked away.

"I don't need your platitudes, or your reminiscences."

"Do you need a friend?" 

"I don't have friends," Sherlock bit out, a wounded animal lashing out at anyone daring to get close.

"I just want to help," John said, hands raised in surrender. "I know what you're going through, and I want to be there for you."

Sherlock's eyes remained on the floor. "I don't want your help." It seemed like that was all he was going to say, but then he spoke up again. "If you really understand, you'll know that I can't bear to be around you. Not while you're driving and I'm not."

His shoulders slumped, as if he was embarrassed by the admission - knowing Sherlock, he probably was. John had to fight the urge to go to him.

"Okay," he said softly. "Okay. But if you need anything, you know where to find me."

Sherlock looked up, that ghost of vulnerability flickering briefly across his face. He held John's gaze, then rose to his feet and moved across the room to an exercise bike. John watched him for a few seconds longer, then forced himself to turn and leave.


	23. Chapter 23

The morning dawned beautiful and clear, and by the time the first free practice session was about to start, Silverstone was bathed in sunshine. 

"I hope this weather continues into the weekend," Mike said as John zipped up his race suit.

"I don't mind the challenge of Silverstone in the wet, but I think I'm with you there."

John took his helmet from Mike and pulled it on, securing the strap. 

"Radio check."

"Loud and clear, John," a voice answered.

Mike patted him on the shoulder and retreated to the engineers' station as John climbed into the car, strapping himself in and fitting the steering wheel controller. 

"Ready to go for a little drive?" Mike asked over the radio.

John looked over and gave him a thumbs-up. Just as he was lowering his hand, a figure appeared at the far end of the garage and he froze mid-motion. Sherlock's gaze skimmed over John and then he headed towards Mike and the other engineers. 

"John?" John shook himself and forced himself back to the matter at hand.

"I'm all set."

He released the clutch and made his way out of the garage and into the pit lane. He couldn't help wondering what had brought Sherlock here. He hoped, for Sherlock's sake, he wasn't going to insist on being allowed to drive again.

He cleared the pit lane and let every other thought slide as he hit the accelerator and sped out onto a track he knew better than any other. His home track. If he could win here... He shook his head - it wouldn't do to get ahead of himself. There were still days to go, and a whole race to drive.

*

As John pulled back into the garage, his eyes were drawn to Sherlock, who was sitting to one side of the main engineers' station, hunched over a laptop. John climbed out of the car and headed for Mike, who was studying one of the screens.

"Tyre temperatures looked good throughout," he said as John joined him at the bank of computers.

"I thought there was a bit of graining towards the end."

"Minor. Nothing that would've caused problems in a race."

"Good to hear it. How are the brakes looking?"

"Holding out well."

"Good," John said with a pleased nod. "And what about the times?"

"You're consistently in the mid one-forties."

John frowned. "There must be a way to cut some time off."

Mike and John both jumped as a familiar, low voice joined in. "You're braking too early at Brooklands and it's slowing you down through Luffield." 

John looked up, meeting Sherlock's gaze. 

"I can't leave it much later."

"Of course you can. It's all about the angle." 

John raised an eyebrow, and after a moment's hesitation Sherlock flipped his laptop around, revealing a close-up of the section. "Look."

John moved forward. 

"If you come in at this angle-" Sherlock gestured with his hand - "you can brake right at the last minute. The added momentum will carry you through into Luffield."

John studied him. "Sure?"

"Of course."

"Then I'll try it."

He held Sherlock's gaze for a moment longer. "Thank you."

Sherlock mumbled an acknowledgement and turned his attention quickly back to the laptop. John stood there looking at his bowed head for a few seconds more, then turned away.

"Let's go again," John announced, clapping his hands together.

*

When John returned to the garage about twenty minutes later, he was grinning. He'd managed to cut a full two seconds off his time, all thanks to Sherlock. John practically jumped out of the car and hurried over to the engineers' station, only to find his stomach dropping when Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. 

"Where'd Sherlock go?" he asked casually. 

"Went off to talk to Lestrade," a random engineer explained.

"Oh, right."

Mike had been deep in conversation with another engineer but turned to John with a wide smile.

"Happy?"

"Definitely."

"We're going to make a few tweaks to the car now, so you can take a break. You might as well grab some lunch."

"Great. I'll see you in a bit."

John slipped off his helmet and replaced it with a sports cap, then unzipped his race suit to the waist. At the door, he donned his sunglasses before pushing his way out into the paddock, which was swarming with people - drivers, television presenters and fans all mingling in the sunshine.

"John! John!"

He stopped at the sound of his name and was quickly bombarded by a group of teenage fans after his autograph. He signed a variety of their belongings and posed for a picture before finally extracting himself from the group.

"Good luck on Sunday!" they called after him. 

Smiling, he quickly crossed the paddock and slipped into the main building, heading for the restaurant. After helping himself to a light chicken salad and fruit juice, he stood at the edge of the seating area, eyes flicking over the tables as he sought any familiar faces. 

He nodded in greeting to Lewis and his family at one of the nearby tables, but bypassed the former World Champion as he headed towards the back of the room. He was halfway across the room when he recognised the hunched figure in the furthest corner. Sherlock had a cap just like John's drawn low on his forehead and he was bent over the table, scribbling in a notebook. A sandwich on a plate lay ignored at his elbow. 

John drew level with the table, but Sherlock made no move to indicate he had seen John.

"Mind if I join you?"

Sherlock startled, head shooting up, but then he looked down, apparently intent on his notes. "If you like."

John pulled out a chair opposite Sherlock and sat down, setting his tray on the table. Sherlock continued to write in his notebook - from where John sat, it looked mostly incomprehensible. John took a bite out of his salad, watching Sherlock with interest.

"What?" Sherlock finally erupted, looking up with a frown.

"Nothing. Just wondered what you're working on."

"Nothing that concerns you."

"Alright," John said placatingly, just about suppressing the urge to roll his eyes.

Silence fell over them as Sherlock turned back to his notes and John took another bite of his lunch. 

"Thank you. For earlier," John said after a little while. "You were right."

"I know."

"You didn't have to help me."

Sherlock paused, eyes flicking up to John and back again. "I was helping the team."

"Well, thank you, from the team."

"It's about the only useful thing I can do at the moment," Sherlock muttered bitterly, and John's heart clenched in his chest. He found himself reaching out for Sherlock's hand and stopped himself halfway.

Sherlock had clearly seen the aborted movement and looked up from underneath his cap. John held his gaze, expression softening.

"You will drive again. These things just take time."

For a moment, it looked like Sherlock was going to snap at him, but then he seemed to reel himself back in. He turned to look out of the window, and John's eyes were drawn to the dark red scarring on his neck. He wanted to ask if it still hurt, but didn't dare to do so.

"Lestrade said I might be able to come back after the summer break," Sherlock said quietly.

"That's great. It'll be here in no time."

"What am I supposed to do until then?!" Sherlock burst out, whirling to face John. He seemed to regret it almost as soon as the words were out of his mouth, and dropped his gaze to the table. John had to fight not to reach for him again.

"Come out with me tonight," John said before he'd really thought it through.

Sherlock examined him closely. "John, I thought I'd made it clear-"

"Please. Just come out with me. As a friend."

"Where?"

John knew exactly where he wanted to take Sherlock, but he wasn't sure how well it would go down.

"It's a surprise."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John as John waited patiently, expecting rejection. Finally, Sherlock spoke up.

"Fine. What time?"

"Six. Meet me at the main gate."

Sherlock studied him a moment longer. "Alright."

John gave him a hesitant smile and turned back to his food, afraid of Sherlock reading too much in his expression. It was a start, and he needed not to get his hopes up too much - his plans for that evening might just backfire completely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Silverstone has some weird names for its corners. There's a map [here](http://m.autocar.co.uk/car-news/f1-2010/british-gp-new-silverstone-layout), if you're interested.
> 
> *[Graining](http://insideracingtechnology.com/f1graining.htm) is basically when the rubber starts to come off the tyre and performance deteriorates as a result.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since these two chapters go together, and since it's been an unforgivably long time since my last update, I thought I'd post a second update this week :-)

It was still warm and sunny as they headed out onto the country roads surrounding Silverstone. It was only about half an hour to their destination, and the journey passed in an almost-comfortable silence. John was overly aware of Sherlock's presence - and just how good he looked in jeans and a form-fitting T-shirt - but he forced himself to focus on the road and the very familiar journey to their final destination.

As they pulled up in the car park, Sherlock looked up at the sign on the front of the old hangar, then turned to John.

"Go-karting?"

"Yes."

Sherlock looked back at the sign again, his expression frustratingly unreadable.

"You may not be able to drive an F1 car, but I bet you can still drive."

Sherlock still said nothing and John had a horrible feeling he might have messed up badly. Perhaps this was just going to make Sherlock feel even worse.

"Sherlock?" he called uncertainly.

"I haven't been go-karting since I was ten."

John cleared his throat. "Are you making excuses in case you're rubbish?" he teased hesitantly.

Sherlock turned to look at him, pale eyes blazing. "You'd better start thinking up your excuses now, for when I beat you."

John laughed. "Bring it on."

They climbed out of the car and headed into the hangar. A thin, greying woman sat at the reception desk, smoking a cigarette. She looked up as the door opened and her whole face lit up. 

"Johnny!"

She stubbed her cigarette out in an ashtray and bustled around the counter before dragging John into a tight hug. "Hello, Kath."

She drew back to look at him. "Well, look at you. World Champion in the making."

"Don't jinx it," he said with a smile, turning towards Sherlock. "Kath, this is Sherlock -"

"I know who it is, you idiot." She gave Sherlock a warm smile. "I'm guessing you're not just here to see the sights. Bill is going to piss himself when he sees you."

She gestured for them to follow her through a door on one side, which led to a dimly-lit corridor. "You remember where you're going?" she asked John.

"Course."

She have them one last look and disappeared through another door. 

"Changing room's through here," John said, leading the way into the room. 

"You used to come here a lot."

"Practically grew up here," John explained, waving at the racks of race overalls. "They should have a least something in your size."

John pulled out a set of overalls for himself and stepped back to let Sherlock look. Sherlock found a suitably tall suit and pulled it on over his clothes as John finished zipping up. The overalls were nothing like the suits they usually wore, especially with their faded but still quite eye-wateringly orange colour and John grinned as he took Sherlock in.

"Ready?"

Sherlock zipped up the suit. "This is quite possibly the most disgusting thing I've ever worn."

"Suck it up," John teased, leading the way back out into the corridor and then out the door Kath had disappeared through. The door opened onto a large indoor track taking up most of the hangar - it didn't look to have changed at all in twenty-odd years. The space echoed with the hum of the engines as five cars zoomed around the track.

"Well bugger me, look who the cat dragged in!" A burly man in his late fifties lumbered over to them and thumped John on the back. 

"Alright, Bill."

"You look well, son."

"I am. Thanks."

"I was sorry to hear about your dad."

"Yeah, I know." John cleared his throat. "Bill, this is Sherlock."

"I know." Bill shook Sherlock's hand with his usual vigour and John didn't miss the tiny wince Sherlock gave. "Are you fit to drive again?"

Sherlock straightened. "Fit enough to drive a go-kart."

"On your head be it. I'll go get a couple of cars fired up."

"Ignore him," John said as he led Sherlock over to the selection of helmets. Sherlock gave them a grimace.

"Next time, we bring our own things," Sherlock commented.

"Such a ponce," John replied, pulling a helmet on and fastening the straps. Sherlock glared at him but quickly followed suit. 

By the time they returned to the track, Bill had two karts turning over. John hopped into the one in front and turned to watch Sherlock squeezing his gangly frame into the kart. When he seemed done, John gave him a thumbs-up and Sherlock returned the gesture. 

John turned to face front, eyes on the lights that would signal it was safe to leave the pit area. Feet poised over the pedals, John waited, and waited - until finally the light turned green. He floored the gas and the kart zipped out of the pit area as he let out a whoop of excitement. All he could hear was the whine of the engine, the sound cocooning him as instinct took over. There was nothing like the intensity of go-karting, reaching fifty miles an hour in this simple little machine, suspended just a few inches from the floor. 

He rounded a corner and became aware of a car on the inside. As they charged down the straight, he stomped on the gas pedal, grinning. Sherlock cut in front of him just before the corner and gave an unmistakeable little wave as he pulled away. John laughed out loud and hit the accelerator again, determined to catch him at the next corner. 

He managed to catch him, but couldn't get past, and he could practically feel Sherlock's grin as he turned his head briefly in John's direction. John gave him a playful warning nudge with the kart and Sherlock nudged him back, before pulling ahead through the next corner. John's smile widened as he took up the chase once more.

*

When they finally pulled their cars into the siding, John was grinning from ear to ear. He tugged off the helmet and turned to find Sherlock grinning back at him. It was the happiest John had seen him in months.

"Oh my God, that was amazing!"

The group of lads who had been racing when they arrived had long since stopped but appeared to have stayed to watch. They now swarmed around the karts as John and Sherlock scrambled out. 

"Fucking brilliant."

"Thanks," John said, sharing a smile with Sherlock. 

"Look, I know you're having some time off, but we'd really love to get your autographs."

"Sure thing," John acquiesced. Nothing could ruin his mood now. Sherlock also agreed and between them they worked their way through the group. Finally, after a group photo, the lads left them alone and John and Sherlock headed to the changing rooms.

As he pulled off his overalls, John found himself watching Sherlock intently. Sherlock stepped out of the suit and straightened, pausing when he saw John watching him. 

"That was fun," John said.

"It was."

"I know it can't completely make up for it..."

Sherlock hung his overalls back up, then turned to face John. "No, it can't. But thank you."

Those pale eyes bore into him and John couldn't move, could hardly breathe with the longing that washed through him.

"My pleasure," he whispered. 

They held each other's gaze for a long while, until John finally forced himself into motion. He hurriedly finished taking off his overalls and hung them back up on the rail.

"Right, then," he said awkwardly. "Let's get going."


	25. Chapter 25

The weather had taken a turn for the worse by Saturday, the track slippery and wet as they went into qualifying. The conditions could not have been any more different from the beautiful and dry free practice sessions. The rain continued without pause into the night and as the crowds began to gather on Sunday morning, it was a rather soggy Silverstone that greeted them. 

"Good old British summer," Lestrade exclaimed sarcastically as he looked out under the lip of the garage. Just outside, the rain battered the already wet pit lane. 

"I just hope it eases a bit before the race," John said, looking out at the dark clouds filling the sky. It didn't look overly hopeful. "It's going to be bad enough out there as it is."

"You did well yesterday. Second place was a bloody achievement, under those conditions."

"Yeah, but Lewis is in front. You know he's better than almost anyone in the wet."

"You've been listening to the press too much. Lewis is good but he's not perfect. Just take it easy, don't do anything stupid, and you'll be fine."

"Easier said than done."

Lestrade grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. "Good luck."

"Thanks."

Lestrade wandered off to talk to one of their VIP guests - some actor with a ridiculous name who John barely recognised - and John looked out at the stormy skies again. How on earth was he going to drive in weather like this?

He became aware of a presence beside him and didn't need to look to know it was Sherlock - his body shifted into a higher sort of awareness reserved solely for the man next to him. John glanced over, then turned his attention to the view outside again. They'd hardly seen each other since the other night, but it felt like something had shifted between them, like some of the resentment and hurt had been dialled back. 

"Not looking promising for the race," John commented.

Sherlock hummed but said nothing. John looked at him again, taking in his slightly more relaxed stance. 

"Are you, err, staying to watch?" John asked carefully. He vividly remembered what Sherlock had said about watching others race - remembered himself how gut-wrenching it had been through the long lonely months of his slow recovery. Sherlock's voice dragged him back into the present.

"I'm helping with some of the telemetry."

John raised his eyebrows and Sherlock gave him a sideways glance. 

"If that's alright with you."

"Lestrade agreed to this?"

"Yes."

"Then it's fine by me."

Sherlock shifted slightly on his feet. "Thank you," he said quietly. 

"No, thank you."

They shared a look and John gave him a soft smile. "I'd best start getting ready."

"Yes."

John hesitated a moment longer, then turned on his heel and headed back into the heart of the garage. 

*

_And the cars finish their formation lap and take their positions on the grid for what is shaping up to be a rather wet British Grand Prix._

_Lewis Hamilton is on pole, and he'll be the one to beat today._

_John Watson pulled a magnificent qualifying out of the bag though. I think he might have a shot here._

_We'll soon find out as the green flag waves, signalling that all cars are in their position._

_One red light. Two. Three, four, five. Wait for it._

_And they're off. Hamilton flies off the start line, kicking up spray behind him. Watson is right on his tail though, and they go through the first corner._

_And oh no, Vettel and Alonso have come together on the first corner. Alonso is off._

_Vettel looks like he's got some damage. Oh no, he's stopping. He's out of the race!_

_We're going to have a safety car after just one lap. What a way to start this Grand Prix!_

*

_As Lewis Hamilton crosses the line to start Lap 20, this race is starting to look like a bit of a procession._

_After all the drama of the first few laps, things have certainly settled down._

_Hamilton is out in front but he's not alone. Watson has been on his tail since the safety car period, but he just can't seem to get past._

_He very almost made the undercut at the first pit stop phase, but a problem with one of the wheel guns meant Watson got stuck just a little bit longer than he would've liked._

_The only silver lining to this race is that the rain is finally starting to ease off._

_And if it stops completely, we could see conditions changing very quickly. That might put a bit of excitement back into this race._

*

"Maggotts and Becketts are almost completely dry," John reported.

"Gotcha, John," Mike said. "Keep us posted."

"Is anyone else changing tyres?"

"Not yet."

John rounded the next corner, which was still damp, and just glimpsed Lewis' car up ahead. John had fallen well behind at some point, but he couldn't risk pushing it in these conditions. 

The next two corners were almost bone dry and John dared to increase his speed just a little. 

"This track is drying up really quickly," John said over the radio. 

"Hang in there, John. We think there's another shower on the - Wait, wait a minute, John."

John could hear muffled voices at the other end of the radio.

"I'm almost at Broadlands. I need a decision soon."

"Are you sure?" John heard Mike ask.

"Yes." It was Sherlock's voice, faint but clear. 

"Alright, John, box this lap. Box, box, box."

John rounded Luffield and swung right into the pit lane, dropping his speed. The pit stop went smoothly, his wet tyres replaced with slicks, and he headed back out, the car twitching just slightly as he hit a puddle at the end of the pit lane.

*

_John Watson is absolutely flying in those slicks as the other cars start to struggle on the wet tyres._

_What a brilliant move by Watson's team. They've beaten everyone to the punch on this rapidly drying track._

_Watson is gaining on Hamilton at a rate of knots now._

_Hamilton is really fighting those wets. He must be coming in this lap._

_Surely he's going to have to respond to Watson's pit-stop._

_He's not! Hamilton stays out, and look at that, Watson is only three seconds behind as he crosses the line._

_Hamilton might just regret not stopping very soon. This track is almost completely dry._

__

*

John had almost caught Lewis when Lewis suddenly pulled away into the pit. John let out a whoop as he tore down the pit straight, the sun shining brightly.

"You're leading the race now," Mike said, somewhat unnecessarily. "Ten laps to go."

"Forecast?"

"That shower looks like it's just going to miss us."

John grinned inside his helmet. 

_You can do this, Watson. Just don't do anything stupid._

The sun continued to shine for lap after lap as John held onto his comfortable lead. Lewis was still fifteen seconds behind him and not making up any ground. 

"One more lap, John. You can do it."

It felt like a dream: the sun shining in the sky, the crowds screaming as he went by, the car carrying him smoothly around the winding track. 

He avoided a stubborn puddle at the rear side of the track, and accelerated into the final sector. He was going to do this - he was really going to do this. 

Four more corners left. Three. Two.

He rounded the last corner into the pit straight and crossed the line in a blur of tears. 

"You've won the British Grand Prix, John. Your home race. Well done!" Lestrade called down the radio. In the background, John could hear the excited exclamations of the team.

John laughed, a choked, emotional thing. "Thank you. We did it. Thank you, guys."

He blinked several times and turned to wave at the grandstand, the crowds going wild. It was completely unreal, the feeling like nothing else in the world. He'd fulfilled a lifetime ambition - and it was all thanks to Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who follow F1 and have seen the latest news, can I just point out that if you go back to chapter two, you'll see that I predicted Vettel and Raikkonen ending up on the same team over a year ago! Alright, I got the team wrong, but go me :)


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Batik96, I lied :-) Hope you all enjoy another update, now that I seem to have found my feet again with this story.

John was walking on air. He could barely remember getting out of his car and climbing up to the podium; it felt like he'd floated right up. And as he stood on top of the podium, holding the trophy aloft, a British crowd screaming his name, he thought he might have died and gone to heaven. This was the pinnacle of his career, a moment he'd never forget - and Sherlock was right there with him. 

The team had sent Sherlock to collect the constructor's trophy, quite rightly, and as soon as the presentations were over, John rushed over and dragged him into a hug.

"You are a bloody genius."

Sherlock let out a huff of laughter. 

"Come on, boys, let's get a picture."

John drew away just far enough to turn to face the photographer, smiling so hard he knew his face would be hurting by the end of the night. He tightened his grip around Sherlock's waist, shaking the trophy in his other hand. 

The photographer slunk away just as Lewis and Nico dumped champagne over their heads from behind. John just laughed, turning to look at Sherlock, who was smiling almost in spite of himself. It was only with a superhuman effort that John managed to drag himself away when all he wanted to do was pull Sherlock to him and kiss him. 

Instead, he went in search of his own champagne. He shook the bottle and as it exploded, tipped it over the heads of the crowds below - including most of the team. Righting it once more, he took a large mouthful and turned back to Sherlock. He went over and held the bottle out.

"This is your win too."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"I couldn't have done it without you," John said seriously. "I mean it."

"You were the one driving, not me."

"Shut up and drink."

Sherlock gave him a faint smile as he took the bottle, tilting it slightly towards John. "To you." 

He tipped his head back and gulped from the bottle, his Adam's apple working as John watched him fondly.

"Gents, the press conference awaits," one of the organisers called, and John turned to look out from the stage once more, taking in the cheering crowds below, the Union Jacks, and banners bearing his name. 

"John?" Sherlock prompted.

John was startled out of his daze. "Sorry." He gave Sherlock a half smile. "I was just thinking... my dad would've loved to be here today."

He swallowed hard as emotion - a tangled mass of joy and sadness - threatened to overwhelm him.

"He would have been very proud," Sherlock said in a low voice. 

John met his eyes and nodded gratefully. "Thank you."

They continued to hold each other's gaze as the moment stretched out between them. Sherlock was the first to blink, clearing his throat and waving towards the stairs. 

"We should..."

"Right. Yeah."

They headed downstairs to the press conference, and from there onto the hotel, where the team's celebrations were already underway.

*

The drinks continued to flow and John was soon well past tipsy and on his way to being really quite drunk. 

"I bloody love you, Mike," John shouted, one arm slung around his friend. "You are the best bloody race engineer out there. Hands down."

Mike shared a grin with his wife, Lucy, who had joined them. "Thanks, John, I really appreciate it."

"I fucking mean it too. Oops, sorry." He pressed a hand to his mouth. 

"Johnny boy!" Lestrade cried, bounding over and dragging him into a bear hug, not for the first time that evening. "You bloody legend!"

John laughed, slapping him on the back. Lestrade squeezed him once more then released him, holding him by the arms.

"You deserved this." 

"I had a good team behind me," John said, looking up and making eye-contact with Sherlock, who was lingering off to one side.

"I'll drink to that. Where's some more champagne?"

Lestrade managed to wave over a waiter and had everyone's glasses filled again.

"To John Watson. And to the team!"

"Cheers!"

John downed his drink, grinning as he met the smiling faces of the people around him. This was everyone's win.

*

In the early hours of the morning, people finally started making their way back to their rooms. John remained behind, chatting to Mike and Lucy.

"We should probably turn in," Mike said to his wife.

"Yes, we need to go and pick Daisy up early. I'm not sure my parents can last that long."

John smiled warmly, leaning heavily on his hand. He'd sobered a little, but still felt pleasantly merry.

"Are you going to be alright getting to your room?" Mike asked John with a knowing smile. 

"I'll help him," Sherlock said, appearing out of nowhere. 

John tilted his head back and grinned and Sherlock regarded him with amusement.

"We'll say 'goodnight' then," Mike said, as he and Lucy got to their feet. 

John got up as well and dragged Mike into one last hug. "Thank you."

Mike extricated himself with a smile and he and Lucy headed off.

"Do you want to go up now?" Sherlock asked. "Before you fall over?"

"I'm not that drunk," John protested, wobbling on his feet.

"If you say so," Sherlock returned, already herding him towards the lifts. John gave up arguing and focused instead on getting one foot in front of the other.

They managed to get upstairs without incident and after John had located his room key, Sherlock opened the door and guided him inside. John staggered over to his bed and sat down heavily, watching as Sherlock closed the curtains and turned on the bedside lamp.

The low light fell across Sherlock's face, highlighting the pout of his lips and the sharp lines of his cheekbones. 

"You're so fucking beautiful."

Sherlock stilled for just a moment, then moved to pull the sheets back. 

"Can you get your shoes off?"

"You mean that doesn't come with the package?" John asked in a flirting tone. "I was hoping you were going to strip me down and tuck me in."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, before moving to crouch in front of John, easing off his shoes. Unable to resist when he was this close, John reached out and touched Sherlock's hair. Sherlock froze, raising his eyes to John's. John's fingers slid down to trace his plush lips.

"You have no idea how much I want to kiss you right now."

Sherlock blinked, then ducked his head and pulled off John's other shoe.

"You're very drunk," he said quietly. 

"Sherlock," he called softly, his fingers drifting to his cheek. Sherlock raised his head just slightly, his eyes clouded with some feeling John couldn't quite make out. When John's thumb stroked over his jaw, his eyelids fluttered ever so slightly and it was all the invitation John needed. He bent forward and pressed their mouths together, letting out a moan at the first touch. 

Sherlock made a choked noise and leaned up into the kiss, his hands resting on John's legs. John kissed him harder, drawing him close, his other hand moving to rest on the other side of Sherlock's neck. His fingers met the oddly smooth texture of the scarring on Sherlock's skin and he faltered ever so slightly. 

Sherlock froze instantly and broke away, looking down and away. "I'm sorry, I..."

"No, I'm sorry, I didn't-"

Before he could even finish his sentence, Sherlock was pushing himself to his feet, and giving John a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "You should go to sleep."

John caught him by the wrist. "Sherlock-"

"John, you've had too much to drink," he said sternly, but with an undertone that John recognised as panic. "Let me go and go to sleep."

John released him reluctantly. He wanted to reach out and hug Sherlock to him, but had no way of knowing if his touch would help or hinder. 

"Please," he got out helplessly. "Stay. We can talk... or not. Whatever you want."

"I have to go," Sherlock said after only a short pause. There was something awfully vulnerable in his expression, much as he tried to hide it.

John stared up at him, the words right on the tip of his tongue. _I love you. Please stay and let me help you._ Something stopped him from saying them out loud though. 

"Goodnight, John."

"G'night. And thank you."

Sherlock held his gaze a moment longer, then turned and slipped quietly from the room. The door clicked shut behind him and John closed his eyes with a sigh. So close, and yet so far.


	27. Chapter 27

Two races - and two wins - later, the summer break was finally upon them. Although 'break' might have been putting it a bit strongly, given they first had summer testing in Barcelona. If they were lucky, they might then get a week off before it was time to start again. It was still a break from the routine though, and after rain in two of the last three races, John was looking forward to some better weather. 

He was also looking forward to spending more time with Sherlock. Sherlock had become a regular presence in the garage for both races, and he and John had spent a long time discussing strategy before the last race, but their relationship had never strayed beyond the professional. It was maddening, but John had no idea how to proceed. The kiss they'd shared had made it clear that physical attraction was still very much there, but Sherlock's reaction had been all too predictable, when John thought back to his own issues with intimacy not long after his crash.

Being injured had dealt a devastating blow to John's confidence, and it had all spiralled downhill from there. He'd felt isolated, lonely, and every attempt Sarah had made to reach out to him had failed because he'd been too caught up in his own misery. There was no proof that Sherlock was experiencing the exact same paralysing cocktail of emotion, but John was willing to bet money that Sherlock's ego had been knocked into submission. 

When he thought of the man who had pursued him like a predator, who had seduced him with a wicked smile and a sharp tongue, and contrasted that with the man who had knelt as his feet and looked away at the stark pronouncement of John's desire, the difference was remarkable. A few months ago, the scenario would have ended in a hot, sweaty, satisfying mess. Even as John's cock gave a twitch of interest, he knew it wasn't enough. Not anymore. He still wanted to take Sherlock to pieces, but then he wanted to be able to hold him close and fall asleep wrapped around each other. He wanted to wake up the next morning and have breakfast in bed and bicker about the news. He wanted to fuck and fight and laugh and cry - he wanted it all, this ridiculous vision of domesticity. And he had no idea - not really - if Sherlock felt the same way. 

John was torn between the urge to push, and the simple gratitude he had for their developing friendship. In some ways, they were closer than before, with a newfound respect for each other. This was the friendship they could have had from the start if rivalry hadn't stripped them of everything but lust. John was determined not to dwell on that thought, but to enjoy the time they had together now, hoping that one day they might be able to find their way to the intimacy he craved.

*

The sun blazed down on them, the garage swelteringly hot as the mechanics worked away at the car. John stood by the entrance, race suit stripped to the waist, trying to keep hydrated as he waited. The sun became to much after a while though, and he retreated back inside.

"How much longer do you reckon?" he asked Mike, who was overseeing the work.

"A little while yet."

Testing always involved a fair bit of hanging around waiting and John nodded in understanding. "Alright. I'm just going for a walk. I'll be back in about quarter of an hour."

Mike waved him away and John headed out into the sunshine once more, heading in the vague direction of the team bus. The paddock was pleasantly quiet compared to a race weekend: some of the other teams had yet to arrive and the press popped in now and then, but were not the overwhelming presence they usually were. All this meant that there were only a few people milling around. 

John was stopped on his way by Ted Rosings, one of the better-informed journalists, who he had come to know quite well. After an initial exchange of pleasantries, it didn't take long for Ted to start digging. 

"You've set yourself up nicely, going into the break," Ted said.

"I'm not complaining."

"What's the secret then, off the record?" Ted asked with a wink.

"The usual," John said with a laugh. "Hard work and some bloody good engineers."

Ted smiled. "And how's the love life? I see your ex just had a baby."

John felt a cold shiver go through him. 

"I didn't realise you were running a gossip column now," he said dismissively. 

"Ouch. Alright then, how about a different type of gossip - any truth to the rumours you've been approached by Ferrari?"

John raised an eyebrow. "Bit early in the season, isn't it?"

"Shall I take that as a yes or a no?"

John laughed. "You can take that as a 'piss off'."

"Come on," Ted protested, his lips curving into a smile. "Ah, now look who it is."

John turned to see Sherlock approaching them, something lighter in his expression. He looked up and met John's gaze and smiled, but schooled his expression when he saw the man next to John.

"Sherlock Holmes," Ted said as soon as Sherlock got close, holding out a hand. "Ted Rosings, Daily Telegraph."

Sherlock shook his hand hesitantly. "Hello."

"How are you doing? You seem to be recovering well."

Sherlock examined him closely. "I'm doing well. Thank you."

"Any idea when we'll see you back in a car?"

Sherlock gave a shrug, all fake nonchalance that made John stifle a grin. "You'll have to wait and see, I suppose." Before Ted could say anything, Sherlock turned to John. "John, have you got a minute?"

"Of course."

John nodded his goodbye to Ted and followed Sherlock along to an empty garage. It was impossible to miss Sherlock's agitation as John perched on a chair and Sherlock paced in front of him. 

"What's this about?"

Sherlock stopped, looking down at him with a faintly troubled expression. "I... Lestrade has offered me the chance to drive, while we're here testing. He's finally happy with the doctor's reports."

"Are you kidding?" John said with excitement. "That's fantastic news."

Sherlock gave him another vague frown. 

"Isn't it? You're ready, aren't you?"

Sherlock paused, before dropping into a chair beside John, his eyes fixed in front of him. He let out a huff of annoyance that was clearly directed at himself. 

"I was so desperate to drive again," Sherlock said quietly. "Just over a month ago, I would have jumped at the chance."

"And now?"

Sherlock scrubbed a hand through his hair. He turned his head to look at John, his expression open; he looked afraid. 

"How did you do it?" he asked. "How did you get back in the car?"

John couldn't completely resist reaching out for him, and let his hand rest on Sherlock's arm. 

"I don't know what to tell you. It was the most nerve-wracking day of my life. I was utterly terrified that I would have forgotten how to drive - how to drive well. But I also couldn't go on not knowing. I had nothing to lose by that point."

Sherlock nodded, listening intently. 

"So I forced myself. One step at a time. Seem to be doing quite well now," he said with a wry smile that drew a faint chuckle from Sherlock.

He squeezed Sherlock's arm. "Sherlock, you're a good driver. I know it's scary, but if you want this - if you really want this - you just have to go for it."

Their eyes met and John realised with a start that the words could equally apply to himself, to the relationship he wanted with Sherlock but was too uncertain to pursue. Sherlock's eyes darkened, as if he too suddenly realised the double meaning to John's words, and for a long drawn-out moment, they teetered on the edge of something. 

Sherlock was the first to turn away, looking down at his feet. John shook himself and cleared his throat, drawing his hand back.

"So, what are you going to do?" he asked after a pause. 

Sherlock gave a half-smile. "I suppose I'm going to have to summon some courage from somewhere."

"You can do it. And I'm right here with you. If you need me."

Sherlock gave him a long look. "Thank you."


	28. Chapter 28

The next morning, John woke early and, after an early-morning swim, made his way to the track. He wasn't scheduled to drive today, but there was no way he was going to miss Sherlock's first drive in months. The paddock was almost empty, but when he made his way to the team's garage, he found a familiar figure bent over the car next to Mike. Sherlock straightened and gave him a soft smile. He was already dressed in his racing gear. 

"John," Mike said in surprise. "Wasn't expecting to see you here." He gave Sherlock a quick glance filled with concern. 

"It's fine, Mike," Sherlock explained. "He's here for, ah, moral support."

Mike looked between them with raised eyebrows, but then shrugged and turned back to the car. "Well, I think you're pretty much good to go."

Sherlock shared a look with John, seeming to brace himself. "Alright."

As Mike was making the final preparations, Lestrade appeared in the doorway and crossed the room to join John and Sherlock. 

"Well then," he said to Sherlock, "You ready to do this?"

Sherlock nodded with only a trace of hesitation. 

"If anything feels wrong, you stop straight away, got me?" Lestrade instructed. "I don't want you getting hurt by your own stupidity."

Sherlock smiled faintly. "Neither do I, I assure you."

"Good. Let's do this then."

Sherlock shared a last look with John then pulled his helmet on and moved towards the car. John followed him, taking on the role of mechanic as he helped Sherlock get strapped in. He gave Sherlock's shoulder a squeeze and Sherlock pressed his hand over John's for just a moment. John gave him a thumbs-up and stepped back as Sherlock started the car. 

Sherlock revved the car a few times, testing, and then crawled out of the garage and into the pit lane. John moved to the doorway to watch him as he made his way slowly down the pit lane and, finally, out onto the track. 

John moved back into the garage and joined Lestrade and Mike at the bank of computers. 

"Tyres and brakes looking good, Sherlock," Mike said over the radio. "You can give her a good run."

They watched the telemetry as Sherlock picked up speed, slowly, carefully. 

"You think he's ready?" Lestrade asked John under his breath. 

"Physically? Yes. Mentally? We'll soon find out."

They watched the screens intently as Sherlock completed lap after lap without incident. 

"Graining on the front right," Sherlock reported after a few more laps. 

"Keeping an eye on it," Mike said. "Stay out for now."

Radio silence followed for another lap, until suddenly Sherlock let out an exclamation just as one of the screens lit up.

"Puncture, front right," Mike said with a grimace. 

"Yes, I know," Sherlock answered sharply.

"Are you alright?"

"Fine," Sherlock said, but his voice sounded a bit shaky. "Heading back."

John moved to the edge of the garage, watching out for Sherlock. He appeared a few moments later, the car limping along with the front right tyre completely blown. 

Sherlock pulled into the garage and parked, climbing out of the car and tugging off his helmet. He looked flushed and a little rattled as he joined them.

"Complete blow-out. Have Pirelli been playing with the compound again?" Sherlock asked, irritation bleeding through into his tone. 

"We'll look into it," Mike promised. 

"Take a break and you can go out again in a bit," Lestrade added.

"I don't need mollycoddling!" Sherlock burst out, turning on his heel and storming out of the garage.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow in surprise and started after him but John held out a hand. "I'll go."

Lestrade nodded and John glanced briefly at Mike, sharing a look of concern, before heading the way Sherlock had gone.

*

John found Sherlock in the toilets, pacing the floor with his hands in his hair. John slipped quietly into the room and propped himself against the bank of sinks. Sherlock made a noise of frustration and stopped, looking up at him with something like despair. 

"Look at me," he said, holding out trembling hands. "I'm a mess."

"Sherlock," John said softly, stepping forward and taking his hands. "You had a shock, that's all."

Sherlock tugged his hands away and started pacing again. "What if I can't do this anymore?" 

John stepped in front of him, drawing him to a halt and forcing him to look at John.

"Then you'll find something else that you're amazing at," John said. "If that's really the case. But you're not going to give up that easily, are you?"

"John," Sherlock got out, his voice thick with emotion. 

"You can do this," John urged, moving closer. "Come on, where's the driver I know? The one who forced Lewis Hamilton off the road in his first season? The one who was never afraid of taking risks? The one who came from nowhere and made us all look rubbish?"

Sherlock swayed on his feet, seemingly overwhelmed. "John," he whispered. 

"That man is still in there, I know he is. He's just afraid, and that's perfectly okay. Any normal person would be."

John reached up and took Sherlock by the arms.

"But the man I know is brave. Brave, and stubborn, and pig-headed." Sherlock gave a weak huff of laughter, and John smiled, swelling with love. "He doesn't take no for an answer. He just takes what he wants. He's one of the most incredible people I know, and I... I love every single thing about him."

Sherlock's eyes flew to his, wide with surprise. 

"And that is why I am going to be there, no matter what. If he never gets back in a car again, I will help him figure out what to do. And if he does... I will be right there with him, racing to the end."

Sherlock blinked several times, the silence stretching out, and then suddenly launched into motion. He lurched forward, cupping John's face in his hands and crushing their mouths together. Sherlock made a choked noise in the back of his throat as John wrapped his arms around him and opened his mouth under Sherlock's. 

They collided with the sinks but John didn't care, gripping Sherlock by the hair and clothes and kissing him back with everything he had as Sherlock gasped into his mouth. 

Sherlock deepened the kiss, sliding their tongues together, and just like that, their caresses became tender, gentle. John ran his hands down Sherlock's back, drawing him in close as Sherlock's big hands stroked across his face. When they finally parted, breathless, Sherlock buried his face in John's neck. 

"John, you... What you said..."

"I meant it."

Sherlock pulled back to look at him, uncertainty creeping in. "I'm not good enough for you."

John choked out a laugh. "Neither of us is exactly a shining example of human being."

"I'm serious."

"So am I. We're both egotistical, stubborn idiots with post-traumatic stress and a whole heap of personal issues aside from that." John smiled, softening his tone. "We're perfect for each other."

Sherlock smiled. "You have a point there."

"Thank you." He buried his hand in Sherlock's hair, dragging him down to John's level. "I love you, Sherlock."

"John... You know I..."

Sherlock couldn't get the words out but his intent was clear and John cut him off with another kiss. God, it had been too long since he'd had the pleasure of kissing that gorgeous mouth. He hummed and pulled Sherlock close, Sherlock pressing him against the cool marble. With one of Sherlock's legs insinuated between his, John was very aware of how things might escalate and he drew away reluctantly, looking up at Sherlock.

"We really should get back before they send out a scouting party. If that's what you want to do."

Sherlock straightened, stepping away and trying to smooth his hair back into some semblance of order. "I want to drive again. Nothing makes me feel the same way."

John raised an eyebrow. "I'd be offended if I didn't know exactly what you mean."

Sherlock gave him a small smile and John leaned up to press a last quick kiss to his lips. "To be continued?"

"Yes," Sherlock breathed. "God, yes."

"Let's go then." John gave himself a cursory examination in the mirror, but the only feature of note was the grin he could not suppress. Sherlock's reflection smiled back at him, hesitant but genuine.


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've actually (finally!) finished writing this so will be putting up the last few chapters over the next few days.

Later that day, after a long driving session for Sherlock, a seemingly interminable team meeting, and dinner with a sponsor, John and Sherlock finally returned to the hotel. It had been a long exercise in self-restraint, both of them aware of the unfinished business between them. Anticipation had grown as the day went on until, finally, they were released and now, as they headed up in the lift, they were both fighting the urge to reach out for each other all the way up. As soon as the doors were open, they tumbled out and by tacit agreement headed to Sherlock's room, which was closer by a mere ten metres.

The door swung open and they were already turning towards each other as it shut when they froze, having spotted the figure sitting by the window. Mycroft sat watching them with something like amusement.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock snarled, taking a step away from John.

"I wanted to congratulate you, little brother. For a successful return to driving."

"Thank you. Now goodbye."

The older Holmes remained unmoving. "It looks like those are not the only congratulations in order," he added with a knowing sweep of his eyes over John. 

"It's none of your business. If you would kindly piss off, Mycroft."

Mycroft rose to his feet and crossed the room to stand in front of John. "Good luck with your season."

"Err, thank you."

"Goodbye, Mycroft," Sherlock ground out, holding the door open. His brother rolled his eyes but then deigned to move towards the door, gifting Sherlock with a benevolent smile.

"Goodnight, Sherlock. Sleep well."

As soon as Mycroft had crossed the threshold, Sherlock slammed the door shut behind him.

"Well, that was... odd."

"Ignore him," Sherlock murmured, already stalking towards John. "Forget about him."

The command was easy to follow when Sherlock kissed him, bending him back with the force of it. John grabbed his neck - careful to avoid the damaged side - and slanted his mouth over Sherlock's before licking his way inside. Sherlock let out a low moan and started shoving him towards the bed and John gladly went - it had been a frustratingly long day.

John broke away with a smile at the edge of the bed and went for the buttons of Sherlock's shirt, pressing kisses to the skin as it was revealed. Sherlock started tugging hopelessly at John's top and eventually John had to draw away to pull the garment over his head. Once he'd done so, he guided Sherlock down onto the bed, hovering over him. 

"God, I missed this," he murmured, swiping a hand up Sherlock's chest and pushing his shirt off. "Get this off."

Sherlock sat up and, after only a tiny pause, slipped his shirt off. When he lay back down, John's gaze was drawn to the red scarring that made its way down his neck and over his chest. His clothes had always covered up so much of it, and this was the first time John had seen the full extent of his injury. 

When his gaze flicked back to Sherlock, he had his eyes closed, his face twisted into a grimace. 

"Hey," John said softly, pressing a hand to Sherlock's face. Sherlock's eyes fluttered open, his expression filled with dread. "You're gorgeous."

"Don't patronise me."

"I'm not. And remember, we're both damaged goods."

He drew Sherlock's hand to his shoulder, and the scar etched across his skin. Sherlock's fingers ran across it, his eyes fixed on John. "Does it still hurt?"

"Sometimes. And you?"

He reached out a hesitant hand, letting his fingers drift gently across Sherlock's scars. Sherlock shook his head. 

"Lucky."

John dipped his head and caught Sherlock's mouth with his once more. Sherlock moaned against him and guided John to settle between his legs, hooking one leg around him. John rutted against him instinctively and they both let out a groan. John pressed his head to Sherlock's, breathing heavily.

"Clothes off. Now."

Sherlock gave him a grin and before John could figure out what he was up to, Sherlock reversed their positions. As soon as he had John on his back, he dropped down and mouthed at John's stomach as he worked his trousers and pants off. John kicked his legs, doing his best to help, but was quickly distracted by the swipe of Sherlock's tongue over his cock. 

"Oh God, Sherlock."

Sherlock hummed around him and then swallowed him down, drawing a low moan from John. John looked down at him, mesmerised just as he'd been every other time by the vision of Sherlock's full lips stretched around his length. He moved to thread his hand through Sherlock's hair. 

"You look amazing like this." 

Sherlock sucked him harder, before pulling back to flick his tongue around the head. John's eyelids fluttered and he stilled Sherlock with a gentle tug on his hair. 

"I could watch you do this all day, but I don't want that. Get your trousers off and get back up here."

"Bossy," Sherlock teased, even as he sat back and started wriggling his way out of his trousers. When he had finally discarded trousers and underwear, he fixed his eyes on John and crawled his way back up. There was something of that old confidence back in his eyes and it was heartening to see. 

They both let out a moan as they settled together, cocks sliding against each other. Sherlock dipped his head and kissed his neck, and John pulled him close, one hand settling possessively on Sherlock's behind. 

"God, I really missed this," John breathed, pressing his open mouth against Sherlock's ear as they rocked together. "I thought I'd never..."

He was silenced by Sherlock's mouth over his, insistent and hungry as he started to pick up pace. John moaned into his mouth, thrusting up against him. Sherlock managed to insinuate his hand between them, long fingers wrapping around their cocks as best he could. John drew away with a gasp, eyes squeezed closed in pleasure. 

"Your hands."

Sherlock twisted his hand and John gave a choked noise. 

"God. I'm not going to last long."

"Good," Sherlock said fiercely, his lips pressed to John's temple as he sped up his movements. 

"Fuck, Sherlock."

Sherlock was trembling himself, bucking into his own hand and against John, his lips smearing moisture against John's skin. "John."

John urged Sherlock to look at him with a hand on his face, delighting in the sight of him: flushed and panting, eyes blown wide, lips reddened and puffy. He'd thought he might never get to see this again. 

"John?" Sherlock groaned in question, almost lost to desire.

"I love you," John got out, even as sensation started to crawl through him. "I love you." 

He let out a moan as his climax overtook him, but he couldn't bear to take his eyes off Sherlock. Sherlock looked almost overwhelmed, his eyes flooded with emotion as he chased his own pleasure. "John," he whispered brokenly. "John."

Trembling with his own release, John held him as tightly as he could, pressing their foreheads together. "Come on, beautiful. Come for me."

Sherlock's whole face softened as his orgasm swept over him, his arms giving way as he jerked against John, adding to the mess between them. John couldn't care less, smoothing a hand down Sherlock's back and holding him close as Sherlock pressed a messy kiss to his shoulder. 

"I missed you too," he confessed against John's bare skin, and John hugged him even tighter. To think he'd very almost given this up forever. He closed his eyes and let out a deep sigh.

He felt Sherlock shift and loosened his arms as Sherlock settled beside him. He could feel that razor-sharp gaze on him.

"Stop it," Sherlock admonished.

"Stop what?" 

"Whatever you're thinking that's putting that look on your face."

John opened his eyes to find Sherlock looming over him with a frown. John smiled and reached up to run a hand over his cheek. Sherlock's expression softened gratifyingly, but he was not ready to give up.

"Tell me."

"I was just thinking that I am a complete idiot."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"I almost let you go."

Sherlock sighed and flopped onto his back. "I pushed you away."

"I know. I shouldn't have let you." 

There was a moment of silence and John studied Sherlock's face, wishing he could get inside his head.

"We're both idiots," Sherlock finally pronounced. "Isn't that what you said earlier? We're both stubborn idiots."

"And that's why we're perfect for each other." He grinned, watching a faint blush creep up Sherlock's cheeks. "Well, I am done being an idiot. I'm in this all the way... If you'll have me."

Sherlock glanced over at him, but turned back to face the ceiling again.

"I've never been someone's boyfriend before."

"No?"

"I always thought it was... messy, and inconvenient."

"I'll give you messy," John said with a smile, looking at the come still sticking to them both. Sherlock gave a faint roll of his eyes but his lips curved into a smile. 

John shifted closer, until Sherlock had no choice but to look at him. 

"Look, I have no idea how this is going to work, either. I've never been in a relationship with another man. But we'll figure it out." He reached out to trace his fingers down Sherlock's arm. "I'm not going to give up on this, not when I think it - we - could be pretty fantastic."

Sherlock blinked once, twice, then he was dragging John down into a hungry kiss. John let himself be dragged, cupping Sherlock's face and trying to pour everything he felt into the kiss. Sherlock tore himself away with a gasp, and pressed his lips to John's temple. 

"John, I can't... I don't know..."

"Shhh," John said soothingly, "I know."

"I won't give up either," he got out fiercely. 

John pulled back just far enough to meet his eyes and as they held each other's gaze, he felt something solidify inside himself. They were in this together.


	30. Chapter 30

_We're back from the summer break and the first race is here at Spa, where unfortunately the summer weather is nowhere to be seen. It's been raining all week and looks set to continue right into race weekend._

_It's certainly going to be a challenge for our drivers, and perhaps even more so for Sherlock Holmes, who returns for the first time since his crash at Bahrain._

_And let's not forget that it was at this track, in exactly this weather, that John Watson had his own crash this time last year._

*

John stood by the window, staring out at the rain pouring down all around. It had only been a week since they were in sunny Barcelona, but it seemed like a lifetime ago. He couldn't help thinking that Barcelona had felt like some sort of dream, for more reason than one. 

He turned to look at the bed and smiled at the sight of Sherlock sprawled across it, fast asleep. Three weeks since he had dared to bare his heart to Sherlock, and he still couldn't quite believe his luck. Those three weeks had mostly passed in a daze of driving and sex and it was something of a shock to be going back to work, to the real world.

"Come back to bed."

John jumped, not having realised Sherlock was awake. "It's almost time to get up."

"Almost, but not quite."

John smiled and crossed the room to climb back into bed. Sherlock instantly moved to rest his head on John's chest, and John squeezed his shoulder, drawing him closer. 

"Alright?" Sherlock asked. 

"Fine. Why wouldn't I be?"

"It's raining heavily and has been for the last four days. The track will be slippery."

John had been thinking exactly the same thing, but wasn't going to admit it. "I'm not the one who's coming at this after several months off."

"Don't pretend with me, John."

"Leave it, please," John said tensely. 

Sherlock pushed himself up on his elbow. "You can't let it get to you."

"I know, alright!" he exclaimed, pulling away to sit up, his back to Sherlock. He couldn't bear to see those pale eyes stripping him to the bone.

"Why were you awake?" Sherlock asked, in a tone that suggested he knew the answer. John's nightmare hadn't been as violent as usual, but it had been enough to wake him. 

"I said, leave it."

The silence stretched out between them, and then Sherlock shifted, the bed dipping with his weight as he crawled behind John and wrapped his arms around him, lips pressed to his neck. "Come back to bed."

Sherlock's tongue flicked at the sensitive skin under John's ear and John leaned back into him. He knew Sherlock wouldn't let him get away with it forever, but he hoped to put the subject to rest at least for a little while. 

*

"I really should go back to my room and get ready," John said reluctantly some time later, rolling over to sit at the edge of the bed.

"I don't know why you insist on having a separate room."

"It wouldn't exactly be subtle." John grabbed his trousers from the floor and pulled them on.

"You know my feelings on this."

John sighed and turned to face him. "I do. I just... I'm not ready to share this with the world yet. I had enough of being plastered all over the papers with Sarah. And this will be so much bigger."

"I don't see why."

"Yes, you do," John said with a laugh, before turning serious. "We agreed this was the best way."

Sherlock pouted. "I was coerced."

John laughed again and leaned over to press a kiss to those pouting lips. Sherlock grabbed hold of him, kissing him insistently, and John groaned. He let himself succumb for a little longer, then pulled away, running a hand over Sherlock's hair.

"You know I'd be shouting it from the rooftops if I had the choice," he said softly. "I want everyone to know what you mean to me. But we both know the way things are. It's not like we could just come out and expect nothing to happen."

"We're not the only gay drivers."

"None of them are openly gay though, are they? Anyway, I'm not gay," John said with a cheeky grin. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Look, I'm not saying we have to keep it a secret forever. Just... until the end of this season?"

"They can't stop you driving," Sherlock said gently. 

"I think Lestrade might take issue with his drivers being... involved."

"It doesn't make us any less competitive."

John looked at him closely. "Doesn't it? Could you do what you did in Australia again?"

Sherlock hesitated.

"I thought not." John drew him into an embrace. "Please, let's just enjoy it while we can."

"Alright," Sherlock whispered. 

"I love you," John murmured against his skin. 

Sherlock hugged him tighter in response. He couldn't seem to say the words, hadn't done so in the last three weeks, but John had no doubt that Sherlock cared just as much as he did. It was why Sherlock found the idea of keeping their relationship a secret so abhorrent. John let out a little sigh and held him close. He knew he was being weak, but he just couldn't bear to have his private life splashed over the front pages again. The press would have an absolute field day with the scandal of two drivers in the same team being in a gay relationship. 

He closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of Sherlock, and drove the thoughts from his mind. He had other things to worry about now: namely, how on earth he would cope with the track of his nightmares. 

*

_And John Watson spins again. He really is having a bad afternoon. He just can't get to grips with this track. It's the first sign of weakness we've seen in our championship leader in months._

"Damn it!"

John slammed his palms down on the edge of the cockpit once he'd pulled to a stop. His driving was getting worse and there was nothing he could do to drive the demons away. He finally clambered out of the car and made his way over to where Mike and Lestrade were in deep conversation. They both looked up guiltily as he approached. 

"John," Mike started.

"I cocked it up again, I know. I'm sorry."

"What's going on?" Lestrade asked softly. 

John rubbed his hand over his face. Was he really so obvious? "It's nothing, I'm fine. I just need to get my head back in it."

Lestrade and Mike frowned at him. 

"How's Sherlock doing?" he asked, changing the subject. 

"He's doing well," Lestrade said. "Come on, let's get a drink. You need a break."

"I'm fine."

"I wasn't asking," Lestrade said firmly, giving John no choice but to follow him. 

The restaurant was mostly deserted and they sat in a far corner with their drinks. Lestrade sipped his coffee and gave John an assessing glance over his drink. 

"Come on, you can talk to me. What's going on?"

John fidgeted, looking out at the rain streaking down his window. How on earth could he explain to Lestrade the mess in his head and his stomach, when he couldn't even bring himself to discuss it with Sherlock, who knew him better than anyone.

"I can imagine this track has bad memories for you," 

John forced himself to look at Lestrade, then ran a hand through his hair. 

"Yeah," he admitted. "It does. I'm trying, believe me."

"It's just a track, like any other. You can't give it any more significance than that."

"I know," John said with a hint of frustration.

"Just tell me what we can do to help?"

John met his eyes. "You can't. I have to do it myself."

"And do you think you can?"

John looked out at the rain again. 

"I have to try."

*

_John Watson's week really isn't getting any better. He's out at the end of Q2, and he'll be starting in eleventh place. This is the worst performance we've seen from him all year._

John slammed the door to the hotel room behind him and let out a cry of frustration. He felt hopeless and stupid and fuck- now he was welling up. He sank to the bed and buried his head in his hands, pulling at his hair. 

A knock sounded at the door. "John," Sherlock called.

John shook his head. "Go away, Sherlock."

"John, let me in."

"Please," John called out, his voice cracking. "Just leave me alone."

"I can't. Let me in before I cause a scene."

John let out a shaky breath, swiped his hand across his eyes, then got to his feet. He unlocked the door but moved away again as he heard Sherlock push it open and step inside. The door clicked shut behind him again. 

John returned to his perch on the bed, hiding his face in his hands. "I really wish you hadn't come," he got out. "I don't want you to see me like this."

Sherlock scoffed and before John knew it, he was kneeling in front of John, pale eyes fixed on him. "You're an idiot."

John choked out a bitter laugh. "Thanks, that's really helpful."

He went to press his hands to his face again but Sherlock grabbed hold of them, stopping him. 

"John," he started, "Don't shut me out. Please."

John closed his eyes, shaking his head slightly. "Sherlock, I can't... I need to be alone right now."

"No, you don't. If you sit here alone and wallow, you won't get anywhere. Look at me."

John forced himself to obey. 

"John, you are one of the greatest drivers I've ever met. Don't throw it away."

"I can't help it," he said brokenly. 

"I know. You've let this track get to you, but you have to move on."

"How?"

"You have to go out there and beat it."

John choked out a laugh. "You make it sound so easy."

"I'll be right there with you."

"What? How will that work?" John asked in confusion. 

"I'll change my gearbox. They'll give me a five place grid penalty and I'll be just ahead of you."

John could only stare at him. His first race back and he was going to ruin his own chances for John. John shook his head.

"I can't let you do that," he said, then more firmly: "Sherlock, you can't do that for me."

"I can and I will, if that's what you need."

"Sherlock..." John reached out to rest their foreheads together and Sherlock smoothed his hands over John's arms. "You can't."

"I'm not set for the championship, but you are. I won't let you lose it. You deserve to be world champion."

John felt his heart seize with emotion. "Then I need to do it for myself," he murmured, cupping Sherlock's face in his hands as a new determination swept through. "I will do it. And if you even think about ruining your own chances, I will hurt you, do you hear me?"

"I just wanted to help."

John let out a shaky breath and leaned down to press their mouths together. If he had had any doubts about Sherlock's feelings, they were utterly shattered in the face of Sherlock's offer. The man who had once said driving always came first had been prepared to sacrifice himself and to John it sounded exactly like 'I love you'.

"You have helped," John breathed in between kisses. "I'd be nothing without you."

"John," Sherlock moaned.

"You are everything." John grabbed at Sherlock's top and tugged until Sherlock got the message and climbed into John's lap. "I need you right now."

"Yes. God, yes."

They scrabbled to get their clothes off and to dig out the lube from the bedside table but finally, finally, John was sinking home and Sherlock was pulling him close and pressing sloppy kisses against his skin, and John could feel the tears dripping from his chin but he couldn't stop and Sherlock was making the most beautiful sounds.

"I love you, I love you," John sobbed, ecstasy rippling along his spine. 

"John," Sherlock choked out, his voice thick with emotion. 

Their words turned to moans and soon the world was splintering as they clung to each other in desperation, the pleasure almost too intense to bear. 

"Thank you," John choked, and he buried his face in Sherlock's neck and let the sensation pull him over the edge.


	31. Epilogue

_Welcome to the very first race here in Sochi, Russia. The sun is shining and it promises to be an exciting afternoon._

_That's right, Martin. We've seen some world class driving over the last few weeks and we could well see a world champion crowned today. John Watson only needs to finish fifth or above to seal the title, and he's starting on pole._

_Let's go now to Andi, who's managed to get hold of the most popular driver on the grid for five minutes._

_Hi guys. Yes, I'm here with John Watson who as you said is close to securing his first world championship title. John, how are you feeling?_

_I'd be lying if I said I wasn't nervous._

_That's understandable. How do you cope with those nerves?_

_Well, you know, it's something you learn to use. Sometimes those nerves actually give you a little bit of a kick, if that makes sense._

_Sure. Sometimes they get to you though, am I right? I'm thinking of Spa._

_Yeah. Yeah, that was a difficult one. It was my first time back there since the accident and I admit I psyched myself out a bit._

_You recovered during the race though, working your way up to sixth in absolutely horrendous conditions._

_Yeah. I just, you know, had to get my head in the game. It was hard but I had some help. My, err, my teammate, Sherlock. He was really good. And Greg Lestrade. You know, the team really pulled together behind me._

_Well, I imagine the team will be right behind you again today._

_Yeah, they've been a great team and it's a great car. I've been very lucky._

_We certainly hope that luck holds out today. Good luck in the race._

_Thank you. Thanks._

*

Just over twenty minutes until the race began and there was nothing more to do. John had his last comfort break and sat for a moment in the cool, quiet changing room. It wasn't his last chance to win the championship today - there were still three races to go - but there was something to be said about being able to win it earlier in the season. It showed just how dominant the team - how dominant he himself - had been.

The door to the changing room opened and John looked up, a smile stretching across his face as Sherlock walked in. 

"I was starting to think I wouldn't get a chance to see you before the race."

"I was trying to get that idiot Anderson to adjust the setup of my car," Sherlock said with a frown as he sat down next to John. "Sorry."

"It's alright." John reached out and took his hand, looping their fingers together. They were always so careful in public spaces, but today he didn't care. "You're here now."

"And I'll be waiting in your bed later when you win the championship," Sherlock rumbled, leaning in to speak the words in John's ear. 

"What if I don't win?" John asked with a smile.

"I'll still be there."

"Good to know you're not just with me for the fame and glory."

"No, I'm with you for the money," Sherlock said in a deadpan tone.

John laughed and, unable to resist, leaned over to kiss him. Sherlock leaned into it, but pulled away again far too soon. "You're being quite reckless today."

John pressed a kiss to his neck. "Maybe you're just incredibly irresistible today."

Sherlock arched into the touch, his eyelids fluttering. "Much as I'd love to stay here, we do have a race to drive."

"True." John pulled away reluctantly. He squeezed Sherlock's hand then went to release it, but Sherlock caught hold of him. Pale, blue eyes fixed on his.

"You can do this."

"You really think so?"

"Yes."

John smiled and leaned over for one last brief kiss, holding Sherlock to him, before finally forcing himself away. "Good luck."

"And you."

"I love you."

"I know."

John smiled warmly and pushed himself to his feet. "Right, let's do this."

*

_John Watson still leads as we pass the halfway mark. This hasn't exactly been a difficult race for him, but he's giving it all he's got._

Corner after corner, straight after straight, John lost himself to the race, heart thumping, skin tingling and every nerve crying out with excitement. Fate had brought him here, to this car, to this team and now to this race, and all the planets were aligning - it was his time to shine.

He floored the accelerator and let out a pure whoop of delight as the car zipped down the straight. He swept through the next corner, and the next, nothing in front and nothing behind. It was just him and one of the most stunning tracks he'd ever driven. 

The car was like an extension of himself, responding perfectly to every nudge, taking every corner with pinpoint accuracy. It was the highlight of twenty years of hard work and he was going to be reliving this day for years to come. 

Lap after lap flew by, until finally, he rounded the last corner and absolute chaos erupted at the other end of his radio as he crossed the line for the last time. 

"John, you've done it! You've bloody done it!"

He pulled his car over to the side of the track just past the end of the pits, too overcome with emotion to go any further. He could barely see the wheel in front of him for the tears pouring down his face. He pressed his head to the wheel.

"Thank you, guys. Thank you."

He took a deep breath and tried to regain some composure. He climbed slowly out of the car, and finally became aware of the sound of cheers echoing around the grandstand. Despite being thousands of miles from home, he could spot a few Union Jacks in the crowds, and there was more than one banner with his name on it. He waved to the grandstand and the noise increased, if that was even possible. 

He finally turned towards the pit lane and jogged the few steps to safety and to the reaching hands of his team, who swarmed around him and enveloped him. He could barely tell one mechanic from the next but it didn't matter as they carried him off along the pit lane towards the podium. 

Lestrade leapt down from his perch at the team control station as soon as John got close and ambushed him, grabbing him in a tight hug.

"Well done, John. Well done. You bloody deserved this."

"Thank you," John choked out, returning the embrace with just as much strength.

Lestrade gave him a resounding clap on the back and pulled away, giving him a few seconds of breathing space before Mike pulled him into his arms. John laughed and clapped him on the back.

Finally, he was free and he started to jog towards parc fermé, pushing his way through the crowds as quickly as he could when everyone wanted to congratulate him. He eventually cleared the crowd and entered the sealed-off area, Bernie meeting him at the entrance to the garage with a hearty handshake. 

"Congratulations."

"Thank you."

John allowed himself to be guided through the weighing and then upstairs to wait for the ceremony to begin. It was only then that he finally saw Sherlock, who had finished second. John crossed the room and drew him into a hug, and Sherlock hugged him back tightly.

"I knew you could do it," Sherlock murmured. 

John forced himself away and exchanged a handshake with Anderson, who was collecting the constructor's trophy for the race, and Raikonnen, who had finished third. Finally, though, it was time. 

John emerged out onto the podium to a resounding cheer and he held his arms up, tears threatening to blind him again. He blinked them away, just about, but the ceremony was largely a blur, with a distinctive Putin-Shaped blur at one point but mostly indistinguishable from the rest. Trophies presented, the British National Anthem sounded out around the podium and John let the tears of joy fall. He dropped his head and thought of his dad taking him to the karts for the first time in his seventh birthday. Who'd have thought he'd end up here?

The music finished with a flourish and the celebrations continued with champagne and cheers but in amongst the madness, John managed to single out Sherlock. He caught him by the arm and before Sherlock could say anything, tugged him into a kiss.

John could practically feel the shock rippling through the crowd but he couldn't care less. When he finally drew away, Sherlock was smiling at him.

"You're going to be in so much trouble with the Russians."

"I don't give a flying toss." He buried his hand in the curls at the back of Sherlock's neck, holding him close. "I love you."

"I love you too."

John pressed another hard kiss to Sherlock's lips, then finally forced himself away, grinning. He was flying high, on top of the world, and nothing could stop him now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter notes:  
> *Vladimir Putin really did present the trophies at the Russian Grand Prix this year (see [here](http://www.whtimes.co.uk/sport/f1_2014_russian_grand_prix_result_hamilton_wins_in_sochi_1_3803290)).
> 
> End notes:  
> I can't believe this is over. It has been such a long, and not always easy, journey (a bit like an F1 race in that respect :-) ). I want to thank every single one of you for your support, especially when the updates were at their sparsest. I hope you have enjoyed this - I've certainly enjoyed combining my love of F1 with the personalities of _Sherlock_ and exploring the idea of a Sherlock and John who start off as enemies rather than friends. Anyway, thank you all and hopefully I'll see you again soon.


End file.
